Springtime of the Spirit (33 page)

But then, seeing the window, she knew even now they were in danger of anything from being arrested by the free corps to becoming victims of the revolution, at the hands of one side or the other.

“Do you want to leave Germany?” she asked him. “You’ve sacrificed far more than I have for this country, after fighting all these years.”

She saw he wasn’t looking at her, either, but straight ahead at the same dark view from the window she’d considered herself.

“I thought they wouldn’t want to fight anymore,” he whispered. “I know that I don’t. And yet they do, out there. I want to leave it behind me. The guns. The fighting. I never want to touch another gun so long as I live. But I’m not sure Germany will let me do that if I stay.”

“But this is home.”

He slid one of his hands around hers. “Whatever we do, Annaliese, wherever we go, as long as we’re together . . . we’re home.”

39

Ivo was happy to see Annaliese again, and because of that his mother welcomed her into the crowded flat as if she were another member of the family. It was near dawn by the time they’d arrived, and so the flat’s two bedrooms were made ready for each of them.

“And for tonight,” Ivo’s mother said as she stood near the door of her own bedroom, the place she’d offered to Annaliese, “you’ll stay in here with me. Away from the children. For as long as you need,
ja
?”

Annaliese smiled and nodded. “Thank you—so very much.”

By the time Annaliese woke it was midafternoon. She left the little bedroom in search of others, passing three of Ivo’s siblings in the parlor, who stared at her but said nothing, not even when she sent them a smile. She found Christophe already awake, sharing a hard roll with another of Ivo’s little brothers in the kitchen. Christophe offered the spot next to him on the bench seat when Annaliese approached the table, and Ivo’s mother settled bread and a cup of coffee in front of her.

“My brother says he used to be your bodyguard,” said the boy whom Christophe had introduced as Klaus. He looked like a smaller version of Ivo, already sporting broad shoulders and big hands. “Why did you need a bodyguard?”

“Because some of the people in the city didn’t like what I wanted to say.”

“Did you say something bad?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I just wanted everyone to get along more fairly.”

“Mother says we should all get along now. That we were fighting for freedom before, that Ivo gave his fingers for freedom. So we should be free now and not fight but get along.”

Annaliese smiled.
Freedom
—a lovely, powerful word. So easily manipulated.

“Ivo went out to see about the trains,” Christophe told her. “I was going to go, but he thought you might worry we’d become separated again.”

“He was right about that.” She slipped her hand into one of his to emphasize the point. “But is it safe for him to be on the streets?”

“Who could keep him home, that one?” Ivo’s mother complained as she scrubbed dishes at the sink.

Christophe squeezed Annaliese’s hand. “He can pass as a free corps member. Most of them are army soldiers anyway, like us.”

A fracas in the small parlor drew Ivo’s mother away from the sink. She left the kitchen with dripping hands and Ivo’s brother tagged behind as witness, evidently to see how his mother would stop whatever misbehavior was going on.

The moment they were alone, Christophe drew Annaliese close. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yes, me too.” She laughed. “I’m glad you let Ivo go. I don’t know what I would’ve felt had you not been here when I woke.”

“I told you, Annalise. Whatever we do from now on, we do together.”

* * *

It was nearly dark when Ivo returned. His mother had insisted on keeping both locks bolted and ordered a bench dragged in front of the door. By the time Ivo was let in, nearly the entire family—four siblings, Ivo’s mother, Christophe, and Annaliese—stood waiting for whatever news he had of the outside city.

“The trains are running—but not on any schedule” were his first words. “People are lined up at the station, waiting just in case one arrives. When one does, it’s swarmed like a dollop of honey by ants.”

“But people are there? unafraid of the soldiers from either side?”

He nodded. “They’re mostly bourgeoisie, wanting to get away from the fighting. The free corps isn’t letting any of the working class leave, for fear a revolutionary will get away. They want all of them arrested. Or worse.”

Annaliese wanted to ask him what he meant, but a glance to the younger siblings reminded her why he hadn’t elaborated.

“We’re working class!” Ivo’s mother said.

“Which is why it’s best for everyone to stay inside.”

“Even me?” one of his brothers asked.

Ivo nodded and tousled the boy’s hair. “Especially you.”

Christophe was already retrieving his knapsack, pulling from it familiar material. One of her old suits—a favorite skirt and short jacket of light green silk trimmed with black lace circles, a frothy white blouse beneath. Only her mother would have known it was a favorite, and the thought made her more eager than ever to be home.

The suit, stockings, gloves, and small black hat were far different from the plain, sturdy black cotton skirts and serviceable white blouses she’d been wearing in solidarity with working-class women. She’d learned to do without frills and colors and soft material but couldn’t deny a small part of her was eager to wear it again—especially when she knew she could take out Giselle’s pin and put it on. Eagerness to do that nearly obliterated whatever capitalistic guilt might loom in her mind—something she would no doubt have to wrestle with, particularly when she saw her father again.

And that, she hoped, would be soon.

Annaliese did not want to go to bed. They had decided to wait one more day, since Ivo’s investigation had included evidence of sporadic fighting—or executions. Annaliese was almost sure he knew more because she saw him whispering to Christophe later, who received whatever news Ivo shared with a grim frown.

At dawn they would say their farewells to Ivo and his family . . . and to all of Munich.

But for now, they were as safe as they could be, and Annaliese wanted to keep it that way. Christophe sat in Ivo’s parlor at her side, close together on the little sofa in front of the cold fireplace. Ivo and his family were already abed, leaving them with their first real time alone since they’d arrived the day before.

It was late and she knew they would need rest, but it was obvious Christophe didn’t want to say good night any more than Annaliese did.

“Ivo’s mother is probably peeking out to make sure there is no mischief going on here,” Annaliese said.

“Of course. We’ve been adopted, and none of her children are allowed to misbehave.”

But to test that statement, he leaned closer and gave her a kiss, then sat back and listened. “There, we must truly be alone.”

Annaliese laughed. “Having so many sons must have taught her how to stop a fight. Perhaps Germany should consult her.”

Christophe looked as though he might have responded, but a tapping at the door called his gaze. She looked, too—with alarm. Everyone in the family was home, and no one called on friends, not anymore. Surely it couldn’t be a neighbor at this hour.

But the tapping was too quiet to be a soldier.

Christophe stood and approached the door. He waited, saying nothing. Annaliese hoped whoever it was would simply go away. And yet . . . hadn’t she been on that side of the door only a few days ago? alone and in need?

The tapping sounded again.

“Ivo . . .”

The voice was too low and raspy to know more than that it was a man’s.

“Should I get him?” Annaliese whispered.

Christophe held up his hand for her to wait.

“What do you want?” he asked through the door.

“Help, Ivo. I need your help.”

“Who are you?”

“Let me in. Ivo, is that you?”

The voice had gone up in volume, and for a moment Annaliese thought it familiar. But she wouldn’t believe it.

“Tell me who you are, or I won’t open the door and I won’t tell Ivo you’re here.”

“I’m a friend. Only a friend. I’m hurt. I need help.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Surely it wasn’t . . . it couldn’t be. . . . And yet . . .

Christophe moved aside the bench and unlatched the lower of the two locks without removing the chain. Bracing himself on the doorframe, he opened the door wide enough to peer out. Annaliese could see nothing beyond his broad shoulders, but Christophe quickly shut the door, unlatched the chain, and opened it wide.

In time for Jurgen to fall into him, unconscious.

* * *

Seeing Annaliese minister to Jurgen shouldn’t have made Christophe uneasy, and yet watching her gently clean his wound, nearly caress his forehead with a cool cloth, Christophe wanted to snatch her hand away.

So he reminded himself, yet again, that she did only what he would want her to do as a follower of the Christ they both now served. If it were any man other than Jurgen. The man who hadn’t given a moment’s attention to making sure she was safe.

As near as they could tell, Jurgen had been shot, but the bleeding had stopped and there was no bullet lodged inside. It traveled through the muscle in his shoulder, evidenced by the entry and exit wounds. And it must have happened some time ago, judging by his weakness and the crustiness of the blood. Annaliese had swabbed the area without even flinching, as well as any trenchside nurse might have done.

Christophe intended to get what information he could from Jurgen, then send the man on his way as soon as he could walk. Certainly there were any number of men still willing to give him aid. Hadn’t he gathered men by the thousands to follow him and Leviné?

And where was Leo, who never let Jurgen out of his sight?

“He can’t stay,” Christophe said. “Not here. It’s too dangerous for Ivo’s family.”

Annaliese nodded, but her face was so solemn he couldn’t guess what she was thinking. Jurgen was coming round to consciousness. Christophe stepped nearer, but Annaliese was already speaking.

“Jurgen, can you hear me? It’s me, Annaliese.”

“Anna . . . liese?”

“Yes, Jurgen. It’s me. What’s happened to you?”

“They came. . . . They found where we were hiding. They shot—at all of us.” He tried a smile. “The jacket . . . the one you gave me. It’s ruined.”

Christophe stepped beside Annaliese, bending closer to Jurgen. “Where is Leo?”

“Leviné . . .”

“No, Leo. Where is Leo? and Huey and Bertita?”

“They left me, all of them. Leviné—arrested.” He barely had his eyes open, bloodshot and rimmed with red. A stark contrast to the pastiness of his skin. “Will use a firing squad on him; that’s what they say.”

Christophe thought he might be right about that.

“What about Leo, Jurgen?” Annaliese asked again. “Where is he?”

“I . . . don’t . . . know. We were given away. Free corps came. . . . Leo . . . he and the others fled before the first shot. Leo left me there.”

“He
left
you?”

Her voice was as incredulous as Christophe felt. Leo? A coward, after all.

Jurgen closed his eyes again, and Christophe faced Annaliese, who stood in front of him.

“He’ll have to stay until morning,” Christophe said. “I’ll go and tell Ivo, and we can take him somewhere else before we go to the train station. Go to bed, Annaliese.”

“I can stay up with you. His wound might be infected.”

“I’ll be here, right on the floor next to him. Don’t worry.”

He didn’t like his own tone, filled with more irritation than sympathy, and so when she smiled, he didn’t expect it.

“You’re a good man, Christophe Brecht.”

He accepted her kiss then but knew he didn’t really deserve it.

40

“He’s been hovering over you as if you were the one with a bullet hole through your shoulder instead of me.”

Jurgen’s observation of Christophe was true, but Annaliese wasn’t about to complain. She’d just changed the bandage on Jurgen’s shoulder, and for the first time since last night, Christophe had left them alone. Ivo kept his family in the kitchen, well away from their visitor.

Jurgen looked beyond her, at the kitchen door, where Christophe had disappeared with the soiled bandages. Leaning closer to Annaliese, he claimed one of her wrists. “Annaliese, I know you’re planning to get out of the city. I want you to take me with you.” The pressure on her wrist increased. “I should say, I want you to convince
him
to take me with you.”

She might have answered—given an instant refusal—except Christophe had already returned. Jurgen let go of Annaliese’s wrist as if it had turned hot enough to scald him, something Christophe obviously didn’t miss. His gaze sought hers as if to make sure she was all right.

“There is something Jurgen wants to ask of us, Christophe.” She kept her eyelids lowered, in case Christophe read too soon how she felt about what Jurgen would ask.

Christophe turned his attention to Jurgen, waiting.

“Are you still planning to leave the city?”

Christophe nodded.

Jurgen looked from Christophe to Annaliese, then back again. “I would like to ask you to let me come along.”

Christophe folded his arms on his chest, but his eyes never left Jurgen. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

Jurgen nodded. “I know it would be difficult. I know you have reason not to care for me. . . .”

Christophe stepped closer to Annaliese and pulled her farther from the couch on which Jurgen sat, as if to protect her already from what he wanted. “You were a member of Leviné’s council, Jurgen. You, as much as he, gave the order to the Communists to take over this city. To cast people from their homes—”

“Yes, to give shelter to the homeless.”

“To raid the banks—”

“How else could we govern, without money to right society’s wrongs?”