Springtime of the Spirit (14 page)

“How many men do you think it would take for another revolution?”

“No need for a revolution when we have a vote coming up,” Christophe reminded Popoff, irritated as much by being waylaid before entering the warehouse as by Popoff’s eager tone. The closer the election came, the more whispers spread about a counterrevolution if the election didn’t go the way they hoped. And with so many weapons sprinkled throughout the city, sometimes Christophe wondered if one election would be enough—no matter who won.

He’d seen the look in Popoff’s eye before, at the front when an untried soldier wanted to lead a skirmish over no-man’s-land to raid an Allied trench. End the war quicker, they’d said. More likely to end their own life quicker.

Still, it looked like Popoff needed more persuasion.

“Jurgen brings in new numbers all the time. Every march he leads shows growth. Let the election do its job.”

Christophe led the way to the far side of the warehouse, where they’d erected a long tunnel lined with bricks and mattresses; at the very end, a target was propped against a thick block wall.

He ordered the men to line up, beginning as he always did before this portion of their training. He inspected their guns. Christophe was aware that Leo watched but was glad he didn’t interfere. As much as Leo knew about politics, Christophe had the feeling the man knew nothing about weaponry.

The men were aware of their guest, though. Anyone who knew Jurgen knew Leo.

“Why does the assembly continue to meet?” one of the men called to Leo after his gun passed Christophe’s inspection. He held it up. “We should storm them and force them to disband.”

“Which is what the election will do if Eisner wins,” Christophe said before Leo could respond. “So we don’t need to storm into another revolution, do we?”

“But what if the vote doesn’t go the way we expect? Then what?”

“A state, a country—” Leo’s voice was as patient as a parent with a child—“can be taken over with a small number of men simply because the majority of people either don’t care enough or aren’t keen enough to think it matters who sits in office. Unless a gun points directly at them, the masses will allow almost anything to happen. Even a German education can’t teach them enough to want to make decisions for themselves on the running of society.” He smiled. “But if the election goes as we hope, there won’t be a need for any more guns.”

Christophe wished Leo hadn’t answered or at least hadn’t answered in the way that made Popoff’s eyes maintain that gleam. Half the men in front of them were as young as Popoff and almost all of them too eager to learn how to fight rather than defend.

He prayed they’d learn sooner than later that a vote was better than bullets—and added a prayer that if the vote didn’t go their way, it wouldn’t come to bullets after all.

* * *

Annaliese helped Bertita in the kitchen, not because she was expected to but because she wanted to. Although Bertita hadn’t said a word about the night Christophe had brought Annaliese home, Annaliese remembered it all. The disapproval on Bertita’s face, the admission that she’d seen the kiss Annaliese had shared with Jurgen. And so had Christophe.

But because there was nothing Annaliese could do to change what Bertita had seen or what Annaliese had done, she chose to ignore it. She counted herself lucky that Bertita was as good at ignoring everything she knew as Annaliese could have hoped.

Tonight she would forget all of that and help Bertita in the kitchen. It was Christmas Eve, but there would be no special feast, no tree draped with fruit and candles. No carols sung, no Christmas story read. No gifts. No prayers.

How many years had it been since she had marzipan or
Lebkuchen
, anyway? Four, at least. . . . Her heart twisted with longing for a past that could never be again, a past that she shouldn’t want to see again anyway.

Ritual. Tradition. Habit. Waste. That’s all any of it ever was.

But some habits used to be nice, even if none of them meant anything anymore.

So she helped Bertita by stirring the same stew they’d had yesterday. She would dole it out into the same dishes they always used, no special plates for members of this “family.”

“Ah! I’m hungry tonight,” Jurgen said as he entered the kitchen from the dining room. “Don’t let any of us go to bed with empty stomachs tonight, Bertita, or we’ll be visited by demons in our dreams.”

Then he laughed over the silly folk tale that gave everyone an excuse to overeat, at least on this particular day.

He came up close behind Annaliese, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently rubbing. Instead of relaxing her, the contact made her stiffen. Things had been different between them lately. Having Christophe in the fold created a new balance. Almost as if Jurgen had been watching them, trying to decide whether or not he was in competition for Annaliese’s affection.

He might have sensed her tension, for he started to pull his fingers from her neck and shoulders. But when Leo opened the door from the back porch, with Christophe just behind him, Jurgen’s hands remained where they were.

“Sit down, sit down,” Bertita said. “While it’s hot. It’ll taste better that way.” She often complained how impossible it was to make a tasty meal with such a scarcity of food.

Annaliese let Bertita take the spoon from her, allowing the woman to portion the meal evenly into bowls and set them in places around the table. Annaliese took a seat at Jurgen’s right side, watching Bertita fill the last two bowls and set them on a tray to take upstairs to Huey. She’d insisted he stay in bed with a cold they all hoped was nothing more than that. Not the influenza that ravaged so many families these days.

“Tales of Christophe’s training are spreading, Jurgen,” Leo said as he patted Christophe on the back. “More men are coming every day because they know they’ll learn how to handle themselves with a gun.”

“Defend themselves,” Christophe said.

Jurgen smiled. “Good, that’s very good, Christophe. I knew we’d benefit from your help.”

Annaliese eyed Christophe across the table. He was already looking at her and smiled when he caught her eye. She turned away; ever since that night at the beer hall, she’d barely been able to look at him. He might be smiling now, but she knew he thought she was foolish. Her only comfort was in knowing she would never, ever, allow herself to be so vulnerable as to make a fool of herself in front of him again. At least not with the help of beer, which she could easily avoid.

The meal went quickly, a meal that might have lasted longer had there been enough to offer seconds.

“Tonight is Christmas Eve,” Christophe said.

He’d spoken to no one in particular. Annaliese didn’t have to see anyone else’s face to know they all stared at him at the same time.

“I will be going to midnight services, to welcome in Christmas. Would anyone care to join me?”

Annaliese was almost tempted to say yes, if only because she’d missed some of the traditions her family held. And just now such an answer would save some of the awkwardness that Christophe was either too slow or too uncaring to recognize.

Even though she wouldn’t go, she knew someone had to say something. It might as well be her; she’d thought about the subject, after all. “None of us will go with you. The church is like capitalism of the worst kind. It claims to have the power to sell a happy eternity. People allow themselves to be fooled by talk of souls and heaven. Fairy stories for puppets and puppeteers.”

Christophe smiled. “I just wanted to extend the invitation. So it won’t be said I’m stingy in my faith.”

Leo, beside him, patted his back again and laughed. “No converts yet, my boy. Everything Annaliese said is true. Besides that, what priest hasn’t dipped his hand into the coffer when necessary? What organization asking for money can really be trusted, especially one claiming to control eternity? It’s just one more hierarchy where those in the right position exploit those of lesser means—and lesser intellect.”

Christophe shrugged. “So you say. I don’t think the church is always right—the church told us to go off and fight, and they were wrong, weren’t they? So maybe some churches are guilty of what you accuse, too, and maybe I’m a fool. But man getting something wrong isn’t God’s fault. We all need to worship something. Even you. Politics is your god, Leo. And you, Jurgen?” Christophe let his gaze briefly touch Annaliese, and she was afraid he might say her name—not that she was Jurgen’s god, but that women were. And he might be right. “I think you and Annaliese share the same god. The crowd. It entices you, so you think you receive something from it. Do you want to know what my God does for me?”

No one spoke, even though Annaliese would like to know the answer. Certainly God had never done anything for her.

“He taught me that everything around me doesn’t make sense unless there is a God who wanted all of us here to begin with. Out of love.”

“A loving God has let this world get into the shape it is?” Jurgen nearly spat the words. “This I cannot understand. What kind of cruel god would let his creation get into such a state as the world has been in the last four years?”

“I’ve done a lot of thinking about that,” Christophe said. “About why He didn’t stop the war. I couldn’t understand why He didn’t.”

“And you didn’t come round to our way of thinking?” Leo’s question echoed Annaliese’s thought.

“I wanted God to stop it. Certainly He could have. But the war was all tied in with our own doing, not His. If He were to stop something as big as a war, then what’s to stop Him from interfering when each of us do anything wrong, even on a smaller scale? That made as little sense to me as Him stopping the war. That was supposed to be a gift, that ability to choose. He won’t take back the gift just because we make a bad choice. Doesn’t having to allow the little mistakes mean His having to allow the big ones, too?”

Leo’s arms were folded across his chest. “Wait until the election; then you’ll see how fairness will take care of the things religion has failed to do.”

Christophe stood. “We’ll see, won’t we? All I ask is that you think about God if He ever comes to mind. Maybe it’s Him nudging you. Consider that if God had created a world without war, without pain, then none of us might
ever
think of Him. Those with the most talent, like you, Leo, and you and you.” He eyed Jurgen and then Annaliese, where his gaze remained. “Everyone with the most ability to work hard and make a comfortable living—those people God gave the most gifts to—probably wouldn’t ever think about Him, not even to thank Him. Who needs God when things are going well?”

* * *

Christophe grabbed his coat from the back of his chair—a coat of plain wool, having traded his finer one at the charity line—then placed the cap on his head and left the kitchen through the same door he’d entered, without a word of farewell. Not even a “Merry Christmas,” though he knew the phrase would mean nothing to any of them.

It was too early to go to midnight services, but he needed to leave this house. He wished Annaliese would come with him for the evening. He had a number of things he wanted to ask her if he could find her alone.

Did she really believe what Jurgen and Leo did? disbelieve as they did too? For a moment he imagined her as impassioned about God as she was about Socialism, and he wanted to smile but didn’t let himself.

Her doubts befuddled him. Certainly there was a God . . . because if there wasn’t, all those faces haunting him would haunt him forever. God was the only One who hadn’t abandoned him, in spite of all Christophe had done.

He walked aimlessly, his shoulders hunched against the cold. At least he could trust that Annaliese would steer clear of the beer halls tonight. He’d seen the care with which she’d walked the day after her last visit and had hoped her headache had been severe and lasting enough to establish a permanent aversion to such places. Leo had said the others would be going there, but he’d overheard her tell him she never wanted to see the inside of a beer hall again, no matter how big the crowds.

Christophe would check back before long to make sure they really did leave her behind. He hadn’t missed Jurgen’s territorial attention toward her, like tonight, when he’d come in to find Jurgen’s hands on her. Sometimes Christophe was sure Annaliese must be interested in the man after all, despite having said Jurgen’s being in her room would have been wrong.

But there were times Christophe caught her staring his way that proved she wasn’t as oblivious to him as she wanted him and others to think. He couldn’t ignore that she felt something for him, and he meant to find out what—even if it was mostly the dislike he also saw in her eyes when she knew he was looking her way.

Somehow he would find a few minutes alone with her. He knew he would have to take matters into his own hands again, and as he walked through the freezing streets, he collected a few pebbles for his pocket.

Leo and Jurgen would be out late tonight; of that Christophe was sure. The beer halls never seemed to empty on holidays. Jurgen undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to resist a ready-made crowd.

Leaving Annaliese alone.

15

Annaliese looked at the closed door, wondering where Christophe had gone on such a cold night. She glanced at the cuckoo clock that hung on the kitchen wall. Even if he went to midnight services, that was still hours from now. Where would he go until then?

Jurgen leaned close. “Anya, come along to the beer hall. There’s bound to be a crowd. A friendly one, especially tonight.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like beer.”

Both he and Leo laughed.

“What kind of German are you,” Leo asked, “not liking beer?”

She smiled. “A tired one. I have some letters to answer from women asking good questions about the election.” Standing, she pushed back her chair. “So I’ll spend the night here, I think, and go to bed early.”

“We plan to march in the afternoon,” Leo reminded her. “There will be more people than ever.”