Springtime of the Spirit (4 page)

“Christophe Brecht.”

He turned at his name, spoken curtly, more like a roll call than a greeting. The oddness of the man’s tone was softened a moment later by the woman at Herr Düray’s side, who came forward, hand outstretched.

“Thank you for coming, Christophe. And welcome home!”

“Thank you.”

The maid had followed with a tray that she set on the table between the couches.

“You’ll have coffee, of course.”

“Or would you prefer something stronger?” Herr Düray asked.

“No. Coffee.” He was surprised they had more than coffee to offer, with how scarce food was in the village. Even scarcer than it had been at the front, when they’d occasionally been able to raid an enemy trench that hadn’t been limited by the blockade that still strangled Germany.

Christophe would have liked to say he couldn’t stay, but what should he tell them he must attend? Since his return days before, and the end of the war only weeks before that, he had nothing to do. The army commission his parents had arranged was at an end, he was too old to return to the university even if he wanted to, and numerous shops, including his father’s, were closed down. What sort of employment awaited him? Even the factories were still in chaos from strikes and the planned transition from war production to less-urgent supplies. There were few jobs to be had for a man, even if every woman who’d found a job during the war relinquished it to stay home.

“I’m sure you must have stories to tell from your time away from home,” Frau Düray said as she poured. Her hand trembled and some of the coffee splashed to the saucer. “But then I’m sure you mustn’t want to speak of it.”

“No more than we should like to hear of it,” Herr Düray put in. “You served your country well, young man. Let that be enough said.”

Christophe accepted the coffee, curious why they’d summoned him if they didn’t want to hear of his experiences. The rest of the villagers who’d welcomed him home had let him talk, and somehow he’d found comfort in it, even if everyone knew it had all been for nothing.

Short of asking why they’d invited him, he could think of nothing else to say. Except one thing. “I was sorry to learn of Giselle. I offer you my deepest condolences.”

Frau Düray’s hand trembled again, heard in the clash between her cup and saucer when she set aside her beverage. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Although he’d been told Giselle had died, he still wondered how it had happened. A neighbor had said she’d been found three months ago, at the back of the Düray factory following an explosion. An accident, he’d called it, but said in such a way that Christophe was inclined not to believe it. No one answered his questions, and he could hardly ask now, though he was certain her parents at least would know the truth.

“We, too, would like to offer you condolences, Christophe, on the loss of your brother. It must be difficult for you to be home now that your parents are no longer there either.”

“Nor my sister.”

“Oh? Has she gone somewhere?”

Vaguely surprised at the question, he nodded. “My sister went to our uncle in America.”

“Good,” Herr Düray said. “That is very good for her.”

“Though I’m sure you must miss her,” his wife added gently.

Christophe nodded again even as he was surprised Herr Düray thought it wise to leave Germany. Hadn’t Germany—even in war—served him well? The roof over his head said that much was true. Perhaps nothing had been easy these last four years, not even for those who profited most by the goods being sold.

Frau Düray looked at him with obvious kindness and sympathy, unexpectedly reminding Christophe of the loss of his own parents. The feeling stabbed at his heart, and even though a moment ago he’d wished to cut short the visit, he found himself now wanting to stay.

“Our daughter spoke of you fondly,” Frau Düray went on. “We always knew you were a fine young man and would come home a hero.”

“The heroes are on the other side. The winning side.” Herr Düray leaned forward, shoving aside his coffee on the table before him. “That’s what the foreign papers say, while ours are silent. Our own government doesn’t think we have ways of reading those papers.” He leaned back on the cushion again, rubbing his face. “But you did your duty, same as I. When the war began, we were both heroes, you for your service and I for my supplies. Do you remember? That it turned out this way . . . it makes neither of
us
a failure.”

Christophe didn’t repeat what others said, that he’d done his duty because he had no choice. But the Düray factories did have a choice.

“The first time our daughter mentioned you,” Frau Düray said softly in contrast to her husband’s gruffness, “we knew you were one to watch with pride. We were convinced you would bring honor to our town by your service to Germany. Because you’re an honorable man, much as your father was.”

Her words sharpened his ache for family and he found himself glancing again at the portrait above. Such a fitting example of the family unit, each one touching another. Herr Düray’s hand covered his wife’s; each daughter had a hand on the shoulder of the parent in front of them. Connected, cohesive. He wanted to say indestructible, separated only by the death that had taken Giselle away, but wouldn’t remind them of their loss again.

“We plan to retool the factory, of course,” Herr Düray was saying. “Back to metalworks for everyone’s use. Pots, pans, tools. Useful, important items. It won’t be long before the factory is outfitted for peacetime again. Plenty of jobs for soldiers like you. New management, new product.”

Frau Düray spared a quick glance in her husband’s direction before continuing. “But in the present time, while the factory is being refitted, as my husband says, you’ll be having some time on your hands, won’t you, Christophe?”

He set down his cup, eyeing not Frau Düray but her husband, who seemed to be growing agitated, judging by the look on his face. A sort of detachment had developed, as if his mind were elsewhere, in a place he didn’t want to be.

“So you invited me here to offer a job, Herr Düray?”

“They hate us, you know,” Herr Düray said without looking at either his wife or Christophe now. “It’s why we’ve had to hire the guard and bring in the dogs. I cannot even enter my own home without fearing one of the dogs will attack me. How should they know they owe me for their meals? that I provide them their shelter?”

“My dear, please . . . let us come to the point.” Frau Düray glanced at her husband again and Christophe sensed she was in a race with Herr Düray’s hold on dignity. “Christophe, the reason we invited you here today was to offer you a job, as you’ve guessed, but perhaps not the kind you’re thinking.”

“What sort of job?” Even he heard the skepticism behind his question.

“I wonder if you might consider going to Munich for us? That’s where our daughter is, you see. We wonder if you might be able to bring Annaliese home to us. The city is so dangerous these days, you know. Between the sicknesses and the street violence the papers talk about. It’s no place for her, and we worry so. . . .”

“Annaliese?” His gaze went to the portrait again. “She is in Munich?”

“Yes! She refuses to send word to us, even to tell us she’s all right.”

“Do you think she’s come to harm?”

“We pray every day for her safety. But truth is, we don’t know.”

“I came through several cities on my way home, Frau Düray.” He wouldn’t tell her all the details—he didn’t like thinking of them himself—but he could tell her the best of what he’d seen and leave out the worst. “People are celebrating the end of the war. Perhaps she is caught up in the busy city life.”

“But she must come home, Christophe. To her family!”

“If she doesn’t want to, how do you suppose I should persuade her? Is she of a majority age? able to make her own decisions?”

Frau Düray reached out a hand for one of his. The look on her face held such despair he couldn’t help but take hold. “Christophe, she’s the only child left to us and not even eighteen. The truth is, we plan to follow the path your dear sister has taken, to America. We cannot stay—but we cannot possibly leave her here alone. Will you fetch her and bring her home so we can convince her to come with us? We’ll be happy to compensate you generously.”

Though she still clutched his hand, Christophe let his gaze leave her face for Herr Düray’s. Did he agree with the plan to leave Germany? When he had plans of refitting the factory, offering jobs to returning soldiers like Christophe?

“She’ll listen to you,” Frau Düray went on. “She’s always held you in high regard. As Giselle did.”

“Munich is a big city. How would I find her if she doesn’t want to be found?” He tried pulling his hand away, but Frau Düray held fast.

“We can guess where she might have started out, and it was only two months ago. Surely if you went there, to one of the inns where we stayed when visiting Munich—the only inns she would have been familiar with—you would learn something about where she went off to. I’m sure of it!”

Christophe was anything but. “Perhaps if you were to go to Munich yourselves . . .”

She pulled her hand away as if he’d scalded her, her blue eyes wide. “Oh, no, no, Christophe! It’s frightening enough here, among neighbors. But there? We wouldn’t go. We couldn’t.”

Although he’d seen the unrest himself, knew it was as bad as the newspapers made it sound, should he assure them no one would know them in a city as big as Munich, despite the recently overtaken government? Surely their identities as capitalists—and worse, warmongering capitalists—wouldn’t be obvious by their name or manner. Although . . . with the quality of their clothing, he knew they wouldn’t blend in with the masses filling city streets, the only safe group of citizenry these days. And those not very safe at that.

In truth, soldiers were the only ones no one seemed to hate anymore. The Socialists wanted the soldiers’ confidence and cooperation, and the government wanted their arms. The Communists might hate them for having fought at all, but they wanted the soldiers’ armaments too. He knew if Herr and Frau Düray wanted someone to go into Munich—a city torn by all those grabbing for power—it would have to be someone like him.

He would certainly be safer than either of them. And what else did he have to do, anyway?

Perhaps it was the right thing to do; Annaliese might be exactly where she wanted to be, in no danger at all. But what harm would there be in finding out for certain? God seemed to be whispering that into Christophe’s soul even before he uttered his response. He’d given Christophe no other direction in a very long time. And God’s urging, unlike the Dürays’, was impossible to ignore.

“I don’t want your compensation, Frau Düray. But I’ll go.”

4

Annaliese fingered the brooch in her palm. It was small enough to conceal in almost any pocket of a jacket or a skirt. She’d done it often enough, mindlessly toying with it while tending to something else, proofreading pamphlets dictated by Jurgen or writing content for some of her own. Answering letters she’d begun receiving almost daily, ever since she’d spontaneously joined one of Jurgen’s speeches almost two months ago. A speech he’d welcomed her to share, once he saw her message reflected his.

She touched the brooch sometimes when sharing the platform with him. Only Annaliese knew she concealed a jewel virtually no one in or connected to the crowd listening to her could afford. Its very existence was the antithesis of everything she espoused these days. It was the symbol of what she’d turned her back on, everything she’d left behind. Her parents’ money, her parents’ greed. They’d given her a brooch similar to this one, which she’d had no trouble selling, promptly donating the money to the cause for world unity. For a better future for all, one of fairness and equality.

The brooch she held now hadn’t been hers. It was Giselle’s.

She rarely took it out except in the privacy of her own room. Here, she could look at it and remember how Giselle had worn it pinned in the center of her collared blouses the way their mother always had, how the black onyx had winked in the light but had never matched the sparkle of her eyes.

“Annaliese.”

The sound startled her, so unexpected was her own name when Giselle’s had filled her heart and mind. She nearly dropped the brooch but caught it back and slipped it into her pocket before going to the door.

Leo stood there, not quite as tall as Annaliese. He had dark, receding hair and a slight paunch he’d somehow managed to maintain through four years of blockade and deprivation. He was not the kind of man most imagined when thinking of a charismatic leader—and never claimed to be—but was, without doubt, the right man to stand behind any leader.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded and would have stepped into the hall, but he did not move away from the threshold.

“I’d like to talk to you before we leave. We have time. The streets are crowded today; we’ll have no trouble gathering listeners.”

The last month had been a whirlwind of action, working for a wage when they could, igniting one rally after another, taking advantage of the crowds in the street who fled the influenza or searched for food or work. It was easy to gather a crowd when they reminded everyone—starting with the police on the street—that they deserved a better life.

Annaliese stood still, waiting.

“Inside, please. And close the door.”

Her mother would have fainted if she knew a man, even one as harmless as Leo, wanted to speak to her without a chaperone inside her small flat, but the thought had little impact on Annaliese. She closed the door behind them.

“You know, don’t you, that this continued denial of your affection for Jurgen is distracting him from our work.”

“How odd, since most of his speeches remind others this is not the time to indulge in petty self-interest. It’s time to rise above, to be selfless—”

“That’s enough. I suggest you support him in any way he needs if you’re invested in everything you claim to believe. Things are changing so fast in this country that it’s difficult for any of us to hold on to what we have. You’re making him take his eyes from the race and put them on you.”