Springtime of the Spirit (16 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Just tell me what this is all about.”

How could she tell him what little she knew without revealing her own silly infatuation with him? It was all too embarrassing. And tragic. Giselle was still dead, and there was no way to find out the truth now.

“My sister was corresponding with someone—another soldier I thought was you. I don’t know how or why it happened. I saw the letters myself, and the few with envelopes were addressed to her from you.”

“Not more than three, then—envelopes, I mean. But the letters you saw weren’t the friendly sort I wrote? More . . . romantic?”

Annaliese nodded. “The envelopes had Brecht on the return—and your regiment.”

He leaned closer. “I didn’t write them, Annaliese.”

She tilted her head, studying him and for the first time in a very long time feeling happy. She wanted to trust him about this. “I believe you.”

“I know one way we might clear this up,” he said. “We could go home. Ask your parents if they know anything about it.”

“They don’t; I’m sure of that. My sister never showed a single letter to my parents and never spoke of you—or this other man, I mean. I always assumed it was because of what he said in his letters: that you—or he—hated those who kept the supply of guns going. That’s why I thought you wanted to join the party, because of what those letters said about my father’s business. That if my father and those like him hadn’t thought money more important than stopping the war, we might have been done with it a long time ago. But you seemed so different from what was in those letters; I wondered what changed you.”

“I joined the party to talk to you about coming home.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Then you don’t believe any of it? any of what the party stands for?”

He sipped his coffee. “Some. There is a verse in the Bible that tells us to walk in justice, mercy, and humility. Fairness sounds like justice to me, but it’s fairness and equality in practice that baffle me. I believe we’re all equal in value. I understand that much. But we aren’t born equal in a lot of ways: in talent or looks or strength or energy or even in less obvious ways, things I can’t put to words.”

“Yes, that’s exactly why we need to be more noble-minded. If we’re all treated equally, it’ll be easier to think of each other as equal in value, too.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s where mercy and humility make up the difference. Mercy to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves, humility to carry through with what mercy calls us to do: giving our time and fruit of our work to others who can’t take care of themselves.”

“That’s right; so you
do
believe . . .”

Now he shook his head. “I’ve worked with too many men to believe any of that could work. Even if we have equal opportunities, there won’t be equal results because none of us has an equal amount of the other things I talked about—energy, talent, effort. It’s like other things in the Bible: it shows the way we’re supposed to be, but it records a lot of evidence that we can’t do it, at least not without God helping us do it. And if the party won’t let God help, I don’t see how the ideals will ever be put into practice. If the army taught me anything, it was how men behave.”

“I’m not sure you should compare civilian life to army life, especially in the last few years.”

“Men are men, civilian or soldier. For every talented man who doesn’t mind those with less talent, who is even willing to take care of them, there is another who either resents those with less talent or will take advantage of them. And what about those who’ll take advantage of things on the other end? those who can work but won’t, not if someone else who is stronger can do it more easily for them?” He shook his head. “Men just aren’t good at being perfect examples of fairness. Not without God, and even then, men get in the way. It’s the way we are. Even when we want to be good, we aren’t. Not always.”

“But if everyone were part of the same system, even the reluctant ones, eventually we’d all see the wisdom that can only come with fairness. We could all be more consistent if everyone has the same thing in mind every day. No one would be allowed to take advantage of anyone else; every single person would be valued.”

“You have more faith in man’s goodness than I do, then.”

“How can that be, when you’re the one who’s always done the right thing? Even now, you want to take me home because you think it’s right.”

“If you want everyone to be valued, then why won’t you see your parents? value them enough to see them before they leave?”

She looked away. “That’s different.”

He laughed. “So it’s all right to impose fairness on someone else, just not on yourself? My guess is your parents don’t think it’s fair that you won’t even talk to them.”

She looked down at the table between them, eyes on her coffee cup instead of him. She would have liked to put her palms over her ears or just leave, but something made her stay. Made her listen.

“I imagine they’re home tonight,” he went on. “Alone. Probably thinking of last year or other happier years, when you and Giselle were with them.”

But that was enough. She would listen no more. She raised her gaze to meet his. “Stop, Christophe. You don’t even know how Giselle died.”

“Then tell me. Did she . . . did she kill herself?”

“She might as well have. She wanted to destroy my father’s factory but got caught in her own sabotage. The last letter that man sent to her said if she wanted to prove she loved him, she would do something to show she supported him—not only be waiting for him when he left his ranks, but do something to show people like our father how wrong they were to keep supplying the war, to keep it going. So she did. She started a fire in the factory, only it exploded before she had the chance to get out.”

When he reached across the table to take her hand in his, she didn’t draw away. Instead, she stared at the difference in their hands, feeling his strength and the comfort he offered.

Something stirred in her heart, something too willing to take up residence when it came to Christophe. An old, familiar infatuation, the same thing that made her want to be with him and run shyly away whenever he smiled at her.

“Come with me, Annaliese.”

She looked from their hands to his eyes. “Home? I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Then come with me to church tonight. For old times’ sake. I know that’s how you used to spend every Christmas.”

She looked at him, knowing she shouldn’t go—shouldn’t even want to. Tradition was one thing, but Leo had convinced her of the dangers of an organized church. She should let Christophe go on his way, and she would find her own way home.

But she was caught by his hopeful smile and the eagerness in his eyes. If God struck her down for the hypocrisy of stepping inside a place of worship with a heart like hers, so be it.

16

Annaliese had been to St. Luke’s only once, on the twentieth anniversary of its completion. Her mother had asked her and Giselle to accompany her to services that day, just three years ago. So much had changed since then. Her father had stopped attending services first, just as the food shortages worsened. Her mother had told them all that they needed to pray more, but he’d refused. And the prayers Annaliese prayed had gone unanswered.

The tall dome, the brown brick, the colorful stained glass of St. Luke’s all remained the same. For a moment she stared at the ornate threshold and imagined her mother nearby, both their arms looped with Giselle’s. The three of them together, worshiping a God who loved them.

So long ago.

She followed Christophe inside, wishing he would take her arm. Funny how quickly she’d abandoned her distrust of him. She’d never been able to connect him to the hatred those letters had shown, not even when she’d read them. She thought the war might have changed him, but after seeing him here in Munich, she knew it hadn’t. Not really. He was the same Christophe he’d always been.

She glanced at his profile once they took their seats, side by side at the back of the sanctuary, back where those dressed like they were dared to sit. She should have resented the class difference, seeing those more regally dressed taking up the pews in the front the way her family once had.

But instead she thought about Christophe, wondering what he’d been thinking when she’d accused him of having something to do with Giselle’s death. Another death, he’d said. Accompanied by desperation, desperate unhappiness. It hadn’t been about Giselle at all, but about the idea of being responsible for her death.

Annaliese would ask him about that . . . maybe.

No sooner had the service begun than everything came back to her, the songs she knew so well, the tone of the sermon as it echoed from the dome. She nearly succumbed to the inevitable feeling that came with being part of the crowd instead of the one addressing it, that unity she should have felt by virtue of being here, listening to a man talking about the love of God, the gift of Christmas, the forgiveness one and all could receive.

It was a tempting message, but her heart would soon cool once the memory of a few well-spoken words faded. She knew that.

After the last hymn had been sung, Christophe led her from the church in no particular hurry. Outside, the air felt colder than ever.

Christophe put her arm through his. “See those stars up there, Annaliese?”

She spared only a quick glance. The air might have felt cold a moment ago, but the chill dissipated with his familiar touch, as if her arm belonged where he’d put it. Wrapped around his. She didn’t want the evening to end. She looked again at the stars above them. The night was clear, the stars bright, with just a sliver of the moon lighting the way.

“See how some of them are brighter than others?”

She nodded.

“We don’t have to look any farther than right up there to see we weren’t all created the same. It’s not fair, maybe, but it’s true. And apart from God, I don’t see how the party is going to make all of us equal in each other’s eyes. Bright or dull, there’s a difference. It’s not going to be an easy task to keep the dull ones from wanting what the brightest earn, or the brightest from ordering around the dullest.”

She had his gaze now, and her heart thudded in her chest the way it used to do when she was younger and shy. Looking away, she forced her feet to take careful steps and her mind to stay on the subject. “A society is only as good as its care for the least of those within that society. Maybe people will surprise you, Christophe, the bright and the dull. Maybe once we all have a voice, those sinners you’re so worried about will see a better way—the fairer way.”

His eyes were still on her. So close an added warmth came from him. For a moment she would have liked to lean closer, to have him kiss her in the way she used to dream about.

But instead she increased their pace, making her mind behave, reminding herself she already had one man wanting more from her than she should be willing to give. Besides, this man at her side didn’t hold any of the beliefs she had, and she none of his.

More importantly, he didn’t believe in the most basic goodness of man if he didn’t think fairness attainable.

So she walked silently at his side, wondering why he thought so little of the men God claimed to love.

* * *

Christophe opened the door to the house they shared, letting Annaliese go inside first, sorry the evening was over. He watched her walk all the way up the stairs. Something was different, and it had changed the moment she learned he hadn’t written those letters.

Still, smiles didn’t always mean what he thought them to mean.

So he let her go up to her room without another word. He opened the door to the flat he shared with Leo and Jurgen—to see Jurgen bent over the table, a glass of wine next to him, papers in front of him.

Now here was a man who knew how to pique the interest of a woman. Christophe had seen it happen.

Jurgen lifted his glass when Christophe approached. “Welcome home.”

Christophe nodded and shook off his coat, eager for his own room.

“She went with you? to your church?”

Christophe had been so close to the door to his room that Jurgen had said the words to his back. He stopped. “Yes, she did.”

“You’d do well to leave her alone, Christophe. She’s young and easily misled. Church will only confuse her, when she left all of that behind.”

He faced Jurgen. “I think she has a strong enough mind to decide for herself.”

Jurgen stood, taking his wineglass and approaching Christophe. “I wonder if you know that Annaliese and I . . . have a rather close bond? Both politically and personally?”

“Yes, I’ve seen your interest in her.”

“And hers in me?”

Christophe regarded the other man. If he admitted he’d noted Annaliese’s interest in him, it would be as much as admitting Jurgen had sole rights to her affection. On the platform the two of them had
something
special between them, but Christophe wasn’t at all sure the connection extended beyond political ties. He’d stopped believing that the night he’d taken Annaliese from the beer hall. Even if her fear had been slight, it had been there all the same. Christophe was sure of it.

“I’ve known her a long time,” Christophe said carefully. “I can see why you might seem a hero to her.”

A quick, almost-unnoticeable twitch appeared in the corner of Jurgen’s mouth. “And why is that?”

“Because you’re the opposite of what her father is. And right now at least, she wants nothing to do with him.”

Jurgen smiled, so if there was any hint of annoyance around his mouth, it was banished. “Let me assure you, what Annaliese feels for me has nothing to do with her father.”

Christophe shrugged again, then turned back to his room. “As you say.”

“Just one moment, Christophe. I know it’s late. I wanted to ask you something about the men you’re training. They’re young, but Leo says they’re loyal. Do you think so too?”