Springtime of the Spirit (18 page)

Christophe’s brows met, then rose, obvious confusion all over his handsome face. “You’re angry? How can you be angry that your parents cared enough to want to know you’re safe? They’re worried.”

“Then why don’t you run home and tell them all about how I’m doing? And don’t come back!”

She would have turned from him, run for the safety and privacy of her own room, but Christophe stood in the way. He caught her wrist and kept her in place. She tried pulling away, but he held her firm, shaking his head and holding up his free hand like a policeman stopping traffic.

“Wait. Just wait. You can’t run off without explaining to me what’s upset you so much. Are you angry with me . . . or your parents? Or—” his brows dipped further—“because of the way I voted?”

She almost laughed; the idea that he might have cared for her was so absurd now. Except when his grip around her wrist loosened and the hand he’d held up fell gently to the side of her face, to caress her cheek in a way she’d only dreamed of him doing.

Yes, she’d dreamed of him holding her, kissing her, in spite of her cautions, in spite of his lack of interest in her . . . but it was all so hopeless now. Nothing was real about him, nothing genuinely his idea. He was nothing more than a messenger of her parents’.

“Don’t let me trouble you any further,” she said, then drew away from his hold and ran up the stairs to the privacy she’d longed for since the first awful rumors had reached her of the election results.

* * *

Christophe heard the door to Annaliese’s flat close with a thud. What had he said that was so wrong? He shouldn’t have admitted how he’d voted. But she hadn’t been surprised; he was sure of that. She’d already guessed as much.

She’d only become angry when he told her how much her parents wanted her safe, proving they loved her. How was that worthy of anger?

He started to take another step up, demand she explain to him exactly what had annoyed her. If it was his vote, he could explain why he couldn’t have voted for her party. Not when everything they talked about looked only to the future, to an illusion built on the belief that men could be better than they were . . . but without God’s help. He’d voted for the party he thought looked at the present, without forgetting the past or ignoring the limits of every man and woman around them.

He leaned on the hallway wall, staring at her closed door. Did they agree on
anything
? He’d tried being reasonable about convincing her to see her parents. He’d tried patience. He’d tried taking her to church because he knew faith was important to Annaliese’s mother, at least, and might have been to Annaliese herself once. But so far, he certainly hadn’t succeeded in uncovering anything they shared.

He couldn’t charm her into agreeing with the things he believed the way Jurgen did. But did she really agree with Jurgen on so many things, or had she been persuaded by him so Giselle’s death might mean something?

If that was so, Annaliese was forgetting something else Giselle had once believed, at least when Christophe knew her. She’d believed in God.

And so had Annaliese, once. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could persuade her to change her focus from politics to God. But God could. If she could ever find the passion for God that she had for Socialism, she would be unstoppable. What a force she would be then, one no one could resist—least of all Christophe himself.

He should go up there, ask to speak to her. But what would he say? He wanted to see her drawn back to God, not push her farther away.

Christophe turned to Jurgen’s flat. He needed to find his Bible. Prayer always came easier when he opened that book, and asking God to touch Annaliese’s heart was the only thing Christophe knew that might work.

19

Annaliese left through the front door, without visiting in the kitchen. It was early, just after sunrise, but she had too much on her mind to waste time sleeping. One night of defeat had been enough; the only way she would be able to prove the last few months had been worthwhile was to keep fighting. She would prove to herself—and Christophe—that her work made a difference.

She didn’t bother to find Jurgen. He had his own challenges, and she wouldn’t divert his attention. Once he was ready to receive her help—and she had no doubt he would seek it—she intended having something to offer. He’d said there would be a time for a Women’s Council, and she knew such a thing wouldn’t happen spontaneously. It needed a foundation, direction. Inspiration.

The party office was quiet. She’d half feared Jurgen would still be there, planning how best to protect the People’s Council. The council would certainly lose a measure of its power once the results of the election took hold, even if they followed Leo’s suggestion and refused to disband.

Which was why the rally for popular support must continue, and that was exactly what Annaliese intended. Let her efforts match the ones they put forth to reach the men of Munich. She still had a voice and could certainly reach more women than she had in the few short months she’d been working for the party.

She found her way to the typewriter; her job started here. She would stir the hearts of women until they were a voice no one could ignore.

* * *

Christophe left as usual in the morning, shortly after dawn. He stopped in the kitchen and went out through the back door, heading to the warehouse.

The loss of the election might have changed the role Eisner played in Germany’s future, but if the councils insisted on remaining in place, they would need protection. And that protection was still the job of every man Christophe trained.

The warehouse, however, was oddly quiet when he entered. Most of the men were still on their cots amid a distinct odor of stale beer—and worse.

If Christophe had carried a whistle, he would have used it.

“Get up!” he yelled. “This is not a holiday.”

Popoff was nearest the door, and he lurched to attention like many of the young soldiers Christophe had worked with in the army. But when he stood, he clutched his head as if afraid without holding it together, it would explode.

“It’s over,” Popoff said, half his face covered with his arms. “We lost.”

“So you think the streets will be quiet from now on?” Christophe said, keeping his voice loud enough to rouse the rest of those still grumbling from their bunks. “Haven’t you heard the council is still in place? Now get up! All of you!”

Ivo, who Christophe knew rarely stayed in the warehouse since his family lived not far, approached him, fully dressed and armed.

“I wasn’t sure you would be here, or I would have gotten them up myself.”

“Do you know where the others are? Leo and Jurgen? They weren’t at the flat at all last night.”

“They went to meet with a man named Leviné.”

The name meant nothing to Christophe, though he suspected by the look on Ivo’s face that it should ignite some kind of reaction.

“He’s on the council with Jurgen.” Ivo had lowered his voice considerably, lending secrecy to whatever he had to say, tinged with a bit of tension. “He’s from Berlin—from the Communists. Leviné has wanted to grow the Communist party right here in Munich ever since he came.”

Christophe had no trouble keeping his gaze steady on the other man. He wasn’t sure what to think just yet, though a warning did flare in his gut.

But his outward calm only seemed to increase Ivo’s agitation. “Haven’t you heard what the Reds are doing in Russia?” Ivo glanced over his shoulder because a few of the men, assembling, stopped what they were doing as if to listen in. “It’s another French revolution! They might not be using the guillotine, but they’re still killing people.”

“That doesn’t mean it’ll happen here. Especially with the numbers from this election. If there isn’t enough interest in leftist Socialism, then there won’t be enough in Communism.”

“I don’t think you understand, Christophe.” Ivo held up his gun. “It’s the ones with the weapons who win, not the ones with the numbers.”

“Are they talking about another revolution? Is Jurgen?”

Ivo nodded.

Another revolution . . . and with these men, right here.

“How soon?”

Ivo shrugged. “They’re waiting for news from other parts of Europe. Hungary, for one. The Communists are talking about revolution there, too.”

Christophe wished he hadn’t come to the warehouse, wished he’d stayed behind and seen Annaliese. If there was ever a time to whisk her away—even against her will—that time might be now.

He knew one thing: if Jurgen threw his support to the Communists, there would no longer be a place for Christophe here. He wouldn’t train men to kill others; he’d done more than enough of that in the last four years.

Christophe eyed the men nearby, all of whom seemed to be moving in slow motion. He barked at them to prepare for training even as silent doubts flared.

He turned back to Ivo. “What about you? Do you want to be a Communist?”

Ivo looked down, perhaps seeing, at least peripherally, his marred hands, hands Christophe knew Ivo himself found ugly because he often tried hiding them. He was still strong, though. And he could still fire a gun. Barely.

“I don’t know. Leo says the Communists want to take care of everyone, even people like me. I don’t want to be taken care of like a boy, having a government or a monarch or a general telling me what to do. But . . .”

Christophe wanted to snatch the gun from Ivo’s hand if he was considering using it for the same cause that stirred up all the violence he’d heard about in Russia. “Someone else taking care of us comes with rules. Less freedom. Isn’t freedom what we fought for?”

“But what choice will I have?”

“Do you think they’ll really take care of you, Ivo? or just control you?”

“I know I don’t want to watch people go hungry anymore. Do you? It’s time to start again, spread things evenly.”

That could have been a line from one of the speeches Annaliese gave. Such lofty ideas, this notion of sharing and fairness. Christophe was willing to do just that, and he was sure God would want that too. There was nothing more satisfying than helping someone who needed it. But he just wasn’t sure everyone could always be as helpful as Ivo might hope. Christophe had always imagined God letting people take turns at generosity, inspiring each within their own means. How could men, by themselves, keep their generosity going for very long if they were told by men how to share and then forced by men to do it? If sharing didn’t come out of the heart, there was bound to be trouble.

Christophe’s own gun was slung over his shoulder; he knew he would have to follow through with the day’s training. The men were finally assembling, waiting for him. But what was he training them for? Perhaps not to defend the council against Berlin’s army that wanted to do away with them, but maybe soon to fight for a new idea. Socialism to its extreme: Communism.

Christophe shifted his gun to one hand, preparing to meet the men for drills.

But Ivo took a step closer. “You’d best talk to her,” he whispered.

“Talk to . . . Annaliese?”

Ivo nodded. “She shouldn’t stay here. Not now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they won’t have use for her anymore. The Communists have no concern for elections, and Jurgen only wanted her this long to bring in the women’s vote.”

“But she believes the way they do—”

Ivo was already shaking his head. “Are you as naive as she is? They’ve never invited her into their inner circle. They’ve never asked her what her opinion is on anything. They tell her there will be a Women’s Council alongside the workers and the soldiers and the peasants, but they don’t have any plans to put one in place. She has no voice because they don’t listen to her. That will likely get worse, not better. I know you want to take her, so I tell you it’s a good idea.”

Christophe watched Ivo leave, convinced the man was right . . . but entirely uncertain how to carry out such advice.

20

Annaliese was nearly ready. After a week of planning, writing, and visiting with some of the women she’d met at rallies or in the factories, she had honed what she wanted to say and was ready to print the first of her pamphlets. She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling a headache coming on. She hadn’t slept much in the last few days, but the extra work had been worth it.

Looking down at the pages in her hands, she couldn’t help feeling a hint of pride. In front of her were words aimed directly at the women of Munich, appealing to their natural sense of nurture, inspiring a willingness to do what was best for all, even if it meant sacrificing old ideas.

She also aimed to protect the ideals Eisner had stood for—without mentioning his name. She emphasized the hope for a Women’s Council, one that would take into consideration things like new educational routes and the protection of women, new opportunities for work with a goal to be paid more fairly, and the creation of opportunities in a political world never accessible before.

Annaliese left the party office—a place that had been nearly empty during the recent days she’d spent there, even opting to sleep there on occasion. Jurgen and Leo had gone to Berlin, although neither had invited her along or even said good-bye. She assumed they went in support of the People’s Council here in Munich—and councils elsewhere—to make sure no soldiers were sent to disband them now that popular support for Eisner, so connected to such councils, fell short in the election.

Without Jurgen and Leo home, she preferred avoiding the house altogether. Huey had gone with Jurgen and Leo, leaving only Bertita . . . and Christophe. Annaliese wanted nothing to do with him, knowing he thought so little of the work she’d done. Seeing him only reminded her how senseless her stubborn infatuation with him was.

She should have left the party office earlier in the day but had wanted to go through the text of the pamphlet one more time before taking it to the printer at the warehouse. It was late afternoon already, and the streets were full. She avoided lingering or even looking around very much, even when shouts or the screech of wheels on the brick pavement drew attention.