Springtime of the Spirit (28 page)

“Giselle picked up the mail in town and must have begun switching the envelopes so none of us would know. The last letter she received from him said if she really loved him—”

“She would do something to help end the war, to bring him home.”

“Yes, that’s right. And then, when Giselle did what she did—starting that fire . . .” Frau Düray brushed away a tear rolling down her cheek. “Manfred didn’t know she would go back inside. He saw her, you know. It haunts him to this day. He saw her run from the factory; then he saw the flames. When Giselle spotted him, she tried to hide from him. She ran the other direction—too close to the factory. She was hit by debris from the explosion.”

She raised unsteady fingertips to her forehead. “Here. She was hit here. You wouldn’t have thought it had even hurt her, if you’d seen her face. She was lovely, right up to the moment they closed the casket.”

Then she looked at Christophe again, as if she’d been away for a moment but was back now. “Manfred has forbidden me to talk about it, even to Annaliese. He blames himself for what happened; he didn’t want Annaliese to blame him too.”

“And yet she left home anyway.”

Frau Düray nodded slowly. “I thought she would come home. I didn’t know she’d read those letters or that they had anything to do with the reason she left. They must have made her hate her father too, the way they made Giselle hate him. And me, too, a little, I think.”

Christophe approached Frau Düray, taking one of her hands in his. “Annaliese went to Munich to see if she could make a difference—to make Germany a better place. One without armaments or war, one where everyone took care of everyone else.”

“I wish the world were a place such a dream could succeed.”

“So do I.”

Christophe let go of her hand, taking up his haversack again, alongside his gun. He only needed bourgeoisie clothing for Annaliese, and then he would go.

Frau Düray turned back to the door as if she’d read his thoughts. It was time for him to leave.

Christophe asked one last question. “Do you know what happened to him? the boy who wrote the letters, who started so much trouble for Giselle? for Annaliese?”

“After Giselle was . . . gone . . . she received another letter from him, so I read it. It was full of the same hate, the same demands for her to do something. He’d deserted his post, refusing to fight anymore. He didn’t know what had happened to her, and he wanted Giselle to meet him. Two weeks later I received another note meant for Giselle, written by a soldier who knew him. He said that the boy was shot—by a German officer, for desertion of duty. Executed without a trial, so the letter said.”

She put a hand to her mouth but words came out anyway. “God forgive me, his was one death I didn’t mourn.”

31

Annaliese barely recognized the warehouse. Bunk after bunk formed close and tight rows, filling every possible spot. She’d always thought the warehouse too large for the dozens of men Jurgen had once convinced to follow him. Now it was far too small.

There must have been hundreds of bunks now, and nearly as many men present, of all ages and sizes. They had only one thing in common: each of them had at least one gun. She swallowed hard, hoping Odovacar had been telling her the truth. If Jurgen wasn’t here . . .

Like a breeze through this forest of men, word spread that there was a woman among them. Some of them were in various stages of undress, a few of whom hurried to grab their shirts while others called to her invitingly. She held on tight to Odovacar’s arm and stared straight ahead, trying to see nothing at all. He patted her hand, and from the side of her vision she thought his chin a bit high, his smile too wide. Obviously he enjoyed this prize he’d brought back.

“Didn’t I tell you the warehouse was full?” Odovacar asked. “And this is just one barrack. We have men collected all over the city! Just like this.”

The news made her shiver. No wonder the streets were empty. People couldn’t even go out to hunt for food or jobs anymore with so many guns about.

There was a makeshift tent in the center of the cement warehouse, and it was there Odovacar led her. Anyone within earshot might have known something was going on in the barrack. Between whistles and invitations—both friendly and unsavory—the noise and energy had undoubtedly shifted the moment she stepped inside.

Before Odovacar could call out for someone in the tent, one flap was flung open. Leo stood there, a curious glance from right to left, until passing Odovacar to settle on Annaliese.

“Anya!” He simultaneously reached for her with one hand and with the other held back the tent flap. “Jurgen! Come quickly.”

Then Leo pulled her closer, not in an embrace but to pull her past him and, as soon as Jurgen appeared, to bring them together.

Jurgen’s smile was warm and familiar, his arms safe amid such an overcrowded collection of men.

“You’ve come back,” Jurgen said, and she could only call him astonished. “To me!”

Then he moved closer for a kiss, but she turned her face so it landed on her cheek. Let others think she was only modest, but there was more than one reason she kept him from her lips. Those were reserved for another—and Jurgen’s were the last lips she wanted to touch.

“Can we talk? Maybe . . . somewhere else?”

Leo still held part of the tent flap, which he now opened wider. “Come in, Anya. Come in.”

Jurgen nodded, and he searched her face, as if looking for something he hoped to find. Even so, his brows gathered apologetically. “I’m sorry, but Leo’s right. This is home for now, all I have to offer. Come in.”

The inside of the tent was dim and cluttered, although the two cots weren’t nearly as snug as those surrounding this interior enclosure. They were joined at an angle in the corner, the opposite ends holding scrawny pillows. The warehouse had smelled of dirty cots and unwashed bodies, and the same odor was here but lighter. Spring hadn’t reached the warehouse, even here. Clothes were piled in one corner, a stack of books in another, next to an oil lamp. A bucket of water sat on a small, round table off to the side, next to a pitcher and two glasses, and a large bowl with soap and towel nearby. Neither Leo nor Jurgen appeared to have shaved in several days. She was surprised, even in the muted lighting, to see how much gray speckled Jurgen’s face. Far more than the trace of gray in the light hair on top of his head.

“Leo—”

Jurgen had only to say his name. With a promise to bring back food, Leo said he would return . . . in a while.

“Will you sit?” Jurgen extended a hand to one of the cots. It was littered with a rumpled blanket, discarded clothing, and an open book, all of which he swept aside.

“No,” she said, still standing. “I can’t stay, not here. But I didn’t know what else to do, except come to you.”

He reclaimed one of her hands. “Annaliese, don’t you know you are always,
always
welcome in my life?”

“But I’m not—that is, I’m not . . . in your life. I only came . . .” She let her voice drift away. Even in light of her anger at him—the state of the city was at least partially his fault, wasn’t it?—it seemed cruel, having seen the eagerness with which he’d looked at her face, in her eyes, for something she couldn’t give.

She looked at the cement floor instead of at him, at the stains that speckled the surface beneath their feet, spots of oil or some chemical or something else from the days the warehouse had been used for whatever it had been intended. “I came hoping you could tell me where to find . . . Christophe.”

The hold on her hand went momentarily limp; then he squeezed it before letting her go altogether. “I see.”

“Do you know where he is?”

He stepped away, facing the tent flap that Leo had closed behind him instead of looking at her. “No. He left shortly after you did. I haven’t seen him since.”

She suddenly wished she could sit but knew she couldn’t, not here. Her limbs were weak, her mind awhirl. How foolish she’d been to leave Meika’s . . . and yet, what could she have done? She had to find Christophe; he would never have found her there.

Outside this tent were hundreds of men, and beyond this warehouse thousands more. Armed. Where could she go without protection? without help in finding Christophe?

She stepped closer to the tent flap, which put her closer to Jurgen. Before she could reach the opening, Jurgen pulled her into his arms.

“Are you sure, Annaliese? very sure you want him, not me? I know I can’t give you all of my attention right now, but soon, when this is over, I can devote myself only to you. You’ll be at my side to help the people, helping me to guide them, to take care of them. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To help the people?”

“Yes, that
is
what I wanted. But not the way you’ve—”

He cut off her words by putting his mouth to hers. She wrenched away, pushing at him, but he was too strong. His beard scratched her skin, poking into her. “No . . . Jurgen . . .”

Jurgen released his hold, stepping back as if surprised by his own actions. He put a hand to his face, rubbing once, letting the palm scrub his chin and cheeks, to pull back on his own hair. “Forgive me. It’s . . . it’s this place. This stinking . . . prison. All these . . . men. . . . They want too much of me, all the time wanting me to assure them, to lead them.” He sent her a half smile. “I was carried away at the sight of you. Forgiven?”

Hands now clenched in fists, she glared at him. “Even if I still wanted you in that way, I’d have gotten over it when you abandoned everything we worked for together. Never once did you ask me what
I
believed, Jurgen, or even consider I might have an opinion of my own—one that might be different from yours. And now look at the people you said you wanted to help. The city is in worse chaos than ever, people cowering in fear while men prowl everywhere with guns!”

If he’d been surprised by his own actions, he seemed no less surprised by her words. “It’s necessary—and sooner or later it would have come to this. Don’t you see? It’s for their own good, in the end. When everyone is truly equal, they’ll thank us even for this. . . .”

She turned away, wanting nothing more than to leave. She’d heard enough of his idealistic dreams, and now none of them made sense. But the same thought as a moment ago struck again. Where would she be safe? Traveling through the streets of the city alone? Should she return to Meika’s? What about Christophe? She couldn’t leave Munich without him.

“I’ll go, then,” she said softly, but tears stung her eyes as the words slipped past her lips. Because she didn’t know where she would go.

He said nothing, only watched her take the last step to the tent flap, his arms now folded across his chest. She couldn’t keep her hand from trembling as she pulled the flap out of her way. She must walk through that legion of men by herself, without Jurgen or Leo or even Odovacar. And then out to the street. God help her, she had no choice. Stiffening her shoulders, raising her chin, clenching her fists, she filled her mind with the same plea that had seen her safe so far:
God, help me; God, help me
 . . . then took a step beyond the opening.

Only to feel Jurgen’s hand on her arm, pulling her back inside. “Annaliese! This is madness. Of course you can’t leave alone. Even to go back to wherever you were hiding away, you’ll need an escort. I don’t even know how you came here—or where you want to go. Where have you been? Where will you go?”

“I—I don’t know exactly.”

She meant to say she would find a place, tell him that she could take care of herself, that she would be fine. She might even tell him God would provide a place for her, although she knew Jurgen wouldn’t welcome her choice of faith any more than he’d welcomed her choice of Christophe.

Instead, a shudder ran through her she couldn’t control. Jurgen was the last person whose help she should want; his attempt to kiss her made him barely any better than those just outside this tent, those who’d ogled her from the moment she walked in.

But he’d stopped himself, and foolish or not, she was grateful to him for that. She would have to trust him.

She wanted nothing else than to be away from this place with all these men, away from Munich altogether, where guns ruled and society was shut down. But why should she depend on God to keep her safe when
she’d
been the one to make such a foolish decision, coming back to Munich when it was in such a state as this?

She covered her face, her palms instantly wet with her tears.

Jurgen’s arms came about her again, only this time more gently. “Then you’ll stay here,” he whispered, “where it’s safe.”

* * *

Christophe gazed at the passing countryside, at the trees dressed in their newest green of the season, at the evergreens standing in contrast, taller than ever. He recalled the forests in France, those that had once been as thick as Germany’s. But they’d destroyed the land’s garment that God had provided, replaced it with bodies and graves.

Something out the window in the distance caught his eye. So far off he doubted others looking toward the same spot had noticed anything out of the ordinary. A moment later the landscape swelled, and even he was unsure what he’d seen.

Except it was somehow familiar. A cluster of uniforms that, try though they might, did not entirely blend in with the landscape. Troops. In uniform. Free corps? Perhaps . . . but he couldn’t be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time his imagination had gotten the best of him.

He settled back, intent on resting at least for a few minutes. Tonight would probably not hold much rest, not back in Munich.

They were still miles from the city and it would be dark soon, but even so the train slowed its speed. He thought nothing of it at first; the train always slowed around one curve or another. Yet when he looked out the window again, he saw there was no bend in their route, nor any nearby hills to navigate. They were slowing for no apparent reason.

Grumbles sounded here and there from those taking up seats in the half-empty train car, but soon enough an uneasy silence settled over them. Even here in second class, no one could be sure who was safe anymore.