Springtime of the Spirit (25 page)

She’d sledded down just such foothills, so happily free of every worry, not even feeling the cold. Trudging uphill through the snow with a heavy sled behind her hadn’t been difficult. Not with neighbors like Christophe, who had more than once pulled not only his own sled but the one Annaliese had shared with Giselle.

She was well south of that little town now, closer to the mountains, away from everything she knew. Away from the city, too—from its strife, from the dangerous tension between the workers and those of the bourgeoisie and upper classes. The bourgeoisie like Annaliese used to be, and like the widow Meika Haussmann, who had taken Annaliese in.

“. . . so I ran away,” Annaliese finished, bringing Meika up to the day before, when Annaliese had returned to the hotel where she’d begun her trip to Munich and found the note Meika had left at the desk, directing Annaliese here to Meika’s country estate should she ever want to leave Munich.

“And you didn’t tell either one of them where you were going? neither Jurgen nor Christophe?”

Annaliese shook her head, then looked away, letting her eyes rest instead on the white dog on Meika’s lap. “I suppose I should have—at least Christophe.” She thought of how he’d watched over her during those days between Eisner’s shooting and his funeral. For her own good, he’d insisted, and she knew he’d been convinced of that. “Christophe is prone to worry.”

Meika stroked her pet’s long fur. “Why didn’t you tell him, then?”

Annaliese returned to the chair in the cozy sitting room where they’d shared small biscuits and coffee that wasn’t much better than what Bertita had served. Evidently coffee was the taste of fairness, since even the wealthy could not bring in what the blockade did not allow. Meika’s dog, a little white Maltese named Schatzi, wiggled a welcome for Annaliese, as if to say he was glad she’d decided to come nearer.

“When he kissed me that night,” Annaliese said, “I wanted so much for Christophe to tell me nothing else mattered except how he felt about me—despite our differences. And yet last night, when I was thinking how afraid I was that he would only break my heart the way he did when we were children, I realized how wrong I was. It sounds romantic, doesn’t it, to have someone say you’re more important than everything else? But what would that really mean? That the very things I admire about him—his faith, even his politics—aren’t important?”

“Are you so different? your politics? your faith?”

“I thought we were. I know he thinks we are.” She remembered the look on Christophe’s face when she’d accepted Jurgen’s kiss. She knew he’d felt betrayed. “He felt obligated to watch out for me because of my parents. But I’m sure they’ve sailed by now, so Christophe is free of whatever obligation he felt.”

“I don’t think that obligation extended to kissing you,” Meika said softly.

“No. . . . But I couldn’t see him. What he believes really is more important than whatever he feels for me.” Annaliese settled her coffee again. “That’s why I was so happy to accept your invitation, to think on neutral territory. All I have to do is figure out what
I
believe, and if any of it is compatible with what either he or Jurgen believes, I’ll go back.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, of course. Only don’t keep them waiting too long. They say women are fickle, but with men . . . they don’t last alone for very long.”

“I’m sure that’s true of Jurgen.”

“I think by your voice that you hope Christophe will wait for you. Don’t you?”

Annaliese shook her head. “He’ll go home. He hated Munich; I saw it on his face often enough. Someday, maybe—if I know I won’t hurt his faith—I’ll find him again back home. If it isn’t too late.”

Meika smiled. “He’ll wait in Munich, at least for a little while, where you knew each other best. If it’s meant to be.”

Annaliese studied Meika a moment. As friendly as they’d been in the first few days after Annaliese had arrived in Munich, they’d never spoken about faith. Even such a statement as that—
“if it’s meant to be”
 . . . Did that mean Meika thought there was some design to life?

She wondered what Meika would think if Annaliese told her it was God Himself who’d brought her to that church the night before. In the light of day, it sounded ludicrous even to Annaliese—evidence in itself that she was far from believing what Christophe believed. He probably wouldn’t doubt God could and would do such a thing, even for someone like Annaliese who’d turned her back on Him.

But even as she pondered those things, she wondered why it should matter what anyone else believed about politics or God, including Meika or even Christophe. Would someone else’s doubts or convictions define hers?

“Last night,” Annaliese said, reaching over the gap between their chairs to touch the Maltese’s silken fur, “after Jurgen said what he did about my beliefs mimicking others’, I only knew I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to see either one of them. I knew if I stayed in that room just up the stairs from Jurgen, it was like agreeing with him. Letting him define everything I believed, letting him think there might be some kind of future for him to keep telling me what to believe.”

She leaned back in her chair. “And I knew that if I asked Christophe to help me find a place to stay,” she went on, “I would be tempted to agree with his beliefs, just to be with him. So I had to go off on my own, even though the only people on the streets these days are the ones with guns. I walked along the march routes we used when I was working for the party. I went to my favorite rally corners. But somehow I ended up at St. Luke’s. I don’t know why; I never intended to go there. I believe—don’t think me insane—God led me there.”

Meika reached across this time to put a hand to Annaliese’s forearm, and when the dog took the opportunity to switch laps, Meika let him. “I’ve done some wandering of my own since Freidrich was killed. I wandered from here to Munich because that was the last place we were happy. I didn’t find Friedrich there. How could I? His body is gone, buried somewhere in France. But I did find God. His peace was more real to me in my pain than I’d ever imagined in happiness.”

Peace.
A word that had replayed in Annaliese’s mind repeatedly, ever since her first moment of prayer the night before.

Annaliese stroked the softest fur, just behind Schatzi’s ears. “Thank you, Meika.”

“But I haven’t done anything!”

“Oh yes, you have. So much. Thank you for taking me in, for listening and not judging. For being my friend.” She laughed and drew the pet close for a hug. “For sharing Schatzi.”

“I’m glad you’ve come.” Meika winked and accepted Schatzi back. “But I suspect neither one of your gentlemen are glad you left. They both care for you; no doubt they’d both welcome you back and hope to work out the differences later.”

Jurgen would at least welcome her as his partner, and Christophe would welcome her as . . . what? If she couldn’t be what he needed, equal in faith, a partner in making the world a better place, not working against one another but side by side . . . if she couldn’t do that, be all of that, then it was better if she never saw Christophe again. For his sake and for hers.

28

Sudden pounding echoed like gunfire, even though Christophe knew the sound came from a fist at the door. Ivo’s little sister shrieked when her mother scurried behind Christophe and Ivo.

Ivo answered, letting the door open only as far as one massive shoulder allowed.

“Leo!”

Barely waiting for the door to open wider, Leo suddenly stood in the small room, a room that served as parlor and bedroom, too, at least for Christophe since he’d left Leo’s home three weeks ago. Ivo shared one of the two other bedrooms in the flat with four younger siblings, but Christophe had chosen the floor in front of the fireplace instead. No sense waking all of them with his restless sleep.

“We need you, Ivo!” Leo said in place of a greeting. He thrust a newspaper at Ivo. “Our numbers are in the thousands, but we need every man we can get—ones we can trust to guard Jurgen and Leviné. Are you ready to return to service?”

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.