Springtime of the Spirit (19 page)

Confirmation was everywhere that even with the election behind them, Munich still wasn’t working. Trash filled alleyways; people with dour faces stared at her while waiting in line for food or for jobs. She refused to allow the slightest eye contact. Yesterday a fight had broken out in front of the party office between two people who’d simply passed each other on the sidewalk. She’d watched, but from well inside, afraid they would crash through the windows.

All of it made her nearly want to leave the city, but only in moments of cowardice. She couldn’t give up now. She wouldn’t.

Annaliese kept her pace brisk and reached the warehouse quickly for such a long walk. It was a place she’d rarely visited since joining the party. There had never been a reason to go there, and Jurgen had been careful to steer her away since it was reserved for men. But the printing press was here, the press he used freely to produce flyers that filled the palms of Bavarians, even if they did sometimes litter the streets of Munich.

Spoiled air and male voices greeted her—not a single sound aimed at her, though, for which she was grateful. She knew only that the press was tucked away in a corner somewhere, a place Leo had said was out of the way. It was too large to take up space in the party office, so she imagined it would be easy to find.

“Annaliese!”

Christophe’s voice made her heart jump to her throat. She stopped, seeing him trot over to her.

“What are you doing here?”

Thankfully, he’d asked the question with what sounded like interest rather than scolding, even if he would likely agree with Jurgen that this was no place for her. “I’m here to use the printer. Do you know where it is?”

He nodded and directed her attention to a corner at the far end of the warehouse. “But no one is here to run it, and I don’t think there is any paper. What do you want printed?”

She held up the small stack of papers she had painstakingly typed and retyped, until she thought it her best effort of expression. “I want a pamphlet made of this, for the women of Munich.”

His brows rose and he reached for it. “May I see it?”

She hesitated but quickly realized how silly it would be to keep something to herself that she hoped to spread everywhere. She handed it to him.

“‘Women of Munich . . . ,’” he read her title aloud, then looked at her with a smile. “So this is how you’ve spent your time lately. I wondered.”

She reached for the papers again. “I know you don’t believe the things I do, Christophe, but—”

He pulled the pages closer, still reading, but spared her a glance. “I don’t believe some of the things Jurgen believes, but maybe I do believe some of the things you’ve written about here. Encouraging women to be involved in voting and society is something we agree on. Maybe there is more.”

“This is something I need to do, Christophe.”

He nodded, then looked over his shoulder as if to see if anyone had noticed them talking. For the first time since entering, Annaliese took a sweeping glance of the warehouse.
Dirty
was the only word to describe it, but she’d guessed that from the stale smell upon entering, a smell that even now compounded her headache from overworking and too little sleep. There were a couple dozen men around, all armed, many of whom stared in her direction. She suddenly realized how grateful she was not to have had to come here before.

Perhaps Christophe guessed at her discomfort, because when she let her gaze return to him, she saw him studying her. “If you leave this with me,” he said, “I’ll make sure it gets printed.”

She wanted to smile but under so many eyes couldn’t make the effort. She knew she would have to trust him, finding to her surprise that she did. Entirely. “Thank you.” Then she turned back to the door.

“Will you be at the house for supper?” he asked.

“No.” She was meeting with a widow friend who might be able to help her with funds, perhaps enough to cover the paper upon which she hoped to print her pamphlets. But Christophe didn’t need to know that. Trusting him was one thing; spending time with him and encouraging feelings her heart would be safer to ignore were other matters altogether.

* * *

Christophe watched her go, wishing she were happier about his help. If she’d only let him, they might find something they could work on together. But he could start with completing the task she’d allowed him to do.

“Ivo!”

He wasn’t sure where the man was, but Ivo would know where to find the printer—who hadn’t been seen since the election, when Jurgen’s press became little more than a dust collector.

There were few places not clearly seen in the openness of the warehouse, and Christophe spotted Ivo near the firing tunnel. Something Ivo kept in good repair, replacing mattresses and sandbags whenever necessary.

“Annaliese wants this printed,” Christophe said. “Do you know where the man is, the one who worked Jurgen’s printing press?”

Ivo nodded, but with a frown. “I saw him this morning. He stopped in to check on the press, then said he was going to purchase paper.”

“Good! He’ll have supplies for this, then.”

Ivo was shaking his head now. “He received something from Jurgen last night. A flyer.”

“Did you see it? What does it say?”

“I haven’t read it, but I talked to Popoff—he brought it from Jurgen and gave it right to the printer. Popoff said Jurgen has been with Leviné this whole time, ever since the election. I think they’re expecting Jurgen to switch to Leviné’s side on the council.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“Waiting for Eisner to resign is long enough, out of respect for him.”

“So it’s happened, then? Jurgen has joined the Communists?”

Ivo lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I only know the paper that’s bought today will go for Jurgen’s flyer—not whatever Annaliese brought you.”

Christophe’s gaze wandered to the door, where Annaliese had disappeared. If she knew Jurgen was fraternizing with Communists, would she remain loyal to him? Would it even make a difference?

* * *

Well past dark, Annaliese trudged up the steps to the town house, counting each one beneath her tired feet. She couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted, and the cot in the back of the party office offered little comfort, which was why she’d left it. She longed for a real bed, with plenty of covers against the late-winter air. Such a bed was only fifteen stairs away.

Halfway up, she heard a door opening. Not Bertita’s, which was likely to happen at any time of day or night, but Jurgen’s. She turned, half-expecting to see him there despite the near-midnight hour. Finally, back from Berlin.

But it was Christophe, and her weary heart made an unruly attempt to dance despite her fatigue.

“You’re working harder without Jurgen here than you did when he and Leo gave the orders.”

She stopped on the steps, grateful for the rest. “Did you give my content to the printer?”

He nodded. “But he has another job keeping him busy for a couple of days. He said he would get to it as soon as he could.”

“What other job?”

“Something from Jurgen.”

She waited for her heart to do something at the prospect of Jurgen’s return. Nothing. “Is he back?”

“Not yet, but from the printing order, I assume it’ll be soon.”

“Why? What does it say?”

“Much of what he’s said before. About fairness. But . . .”

She wished she weren’t so eager to hear what Christophe had to say. She was tired; she should go to bed and tell him she would speak to him in the morning. But the look on his face, so somber, held a warning she couldn’t ignore.

He folded his arms on his chest. “The flyers aren’t supposed to be distributed to the public until after Eisner’s official resignation.”

She was confused. “So why couldn’t the printer do my pamphlet first?”

“Because Jurgen wanted some of the flyers sent to a few people in the labor unions. It’s his way of seeing what kind of support he’ll have . . . for a different approach at change.”

“Such as?”

“He’s talking about public ownership, Annaliese. Starting with the factories. Not with a hope of doing away with private property
someday
, when everyone accepts the idea of fair sharing. It looks like he wants it now.”

She sank to the stair beneath her, following the downward movement of her heart. “You’re talking about a takeover, aren’t you? a revolution—a Communist one?”

More than anything, she wanted Christophe to deny it, to assure her Jurgen hadn’t left his ideals of society gradually accepting an equally shared partnership. That was the only way toward a better society, when people chose it at the ballot box. With a bit of hope, that could happen. Someday. Hadn’t Jurgen himself said so?

To demand private property become public . . . that was something else altogether. Had he entirely abandoned the value of elections?

“Are you certain? certain he’s talking about switching to such measures?”

Christophe didn’t answer for what seemed like forever. He approached her, going to the bottom stair but stopping there so their eyes were level. “Do you know a man by the name of Leviné?”

The name was answer enough. Annaliese dropped her gaze, away from Christophe’s sympathetic stare. She nodded slowly. Then she pulled herself to a stand and counted the rest of the steps to her room. Why hadn’t she seen it? Leviné was from Berlin, where Jurgen was now.

Maybe that was the very reason Jurgen had gone there. To associate with those who’d sent Leviné to Munich.

Communists.

21

Annaliese sneezed yet again, wiped at her nose, then pushed another pamphlet into an envelope. For the past week, she’d worked mostly from here in her room, ignoring the weight to her spirit that had nothing to do with the sniffles filling her head. She couldn’t stop asking herself the same question she’d been asking since talking to Christophe that night on the steps. Would everything she was doing be for nothing? She was willing to work, to wait for the next election, but knew she couldn’t push the Socialist cause by herself. If Jurgen had gone farther than that, if he’d grown impatient for the fruits of Socialism to spread—if he’d given it up for Communism—then she was alone. Not even Christophe would help her. He served God, and she knew there was little room for Him in Socialism, and none at all in Communism.

It was midafternoon, and on her desk was a stack of letters she’d hoped to distribute today . . . if she could summon the energy. Her head throbbed not just with pressure building toward another sneeze but with questions. Would women really listen to her and to her alone? Were they ready to put the past behind them, now that so many of them had a taste of working outside the home? Or would everything go back to the way it was before the war, when women were bound to the home, without a choice? If there was a God—One as loving as Christophe wanted her to believe—surely He didn’t mean to give women other gifts beside childbearing and expect them not to be used? Women could be a formidable force for the good of society if they were given the independence to do so.

Such thoughts made her wonder about her own choices. Here she was, living in a flat that wasn’t her own. Dependent on the charity of men. How was that taking care of herself? While she’d been working for the cause of Socialism, responsible for bringing in a hefty portion of donations, she’d felt useful. But now . . . how could she stay here, with Jurgen, if he’d abandoned what she thought he’d believed?

Another sneeze, another tight swallow. Her throat felt as if a knife were lodged inside.

“Annaliese, are you there?”

Jurgen’s voice! She knew he would return sooner or later, but now that the moment was here, she found herself unprepared after all.

Annaliese crumpled yet another handkerchief, glancing at the messy room. She’d taken two naps today and hadn’t bothered to set the covers right. Ever since the thickness in her head had loosened to a steady leak through her eyes and nose, she’d gone through one handkerchief after another. She feared she looked even worse than she felt.

“Yes, I’m here. Just a moment.”

She rose from her chair, smoothed a stray strand of hair behind one ear, slipped her shoes on, and tucked her blouse into her skirt before opening the door.

Jurgen stood smiling like an eager suitor. He half-reached for an embrace before leaning back, his brows fallen and his smile gone. “You’re sick?”

Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she nodded, only slightly offended by the aversion on his face. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to step back, farther away from her. “Yes, a little.”

“I’ve heard nothing but how hard you’ve been working for the people’s cause. Christophe told me at the warehouse that you haven’t left your room in days.”

“That’s true.” She sniffed. “I’ve been busy. But I’m glad you’re back.”

His smile returned with full charm. “Are you, Anya?”

“There are rumors going around that when Eisner resigns in a couple of days, you’ll announce your support for Leviné.”

He tsked. “And here I thought for a moment you missed
me
, not my politics.”

“Is it true?”

He shook his head. “None of this should worry you, Anya, especially when you need rest. Nothing has changed. I still want what is best for everyone.” He held out a piece of paper she hadn’t noticed in his hand. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”

“What is it?” She reached for it eagerly, wondering if it would confirm or deny the things Christophe had warned her about. “News of some kind?”

He shook his head. “No. I wrote it for you while I was away.” He looked around, past her, perhaps seeing the rumpled bed, the used handkerchiefs. “I was going to read it to you, to prove you’re never far from my thoughts . . . but I’ll wait until you’re feeling better.”

Then he turned on his heel, whispered good-afternoon over his shoulder, and took the stairs down to his own flat.