Springtime of the Spirit (5 page)

“I’ve never done a thing to encourage him. He only wants me because he hasn’t had me. Have him ask any one of the others. They’ve been compliant enough so far.”

“So it’s jealousy preventing you from going to his bed? A petty, self-centered wish to have him all to yourself or not at all. Like a
wife
, when all of us know marriage is one more vehicle for the government to control us.”

“Call it what you will. I have my own reasons. If he wants proof of my loyalty, tell him to listen to my speeches.”

For a moment Leo’s eyes sparked; his color heightened. Never in the weeks since she’d first met him had he looked at her in such a way. He had become, after all, her protector and adviser, too, from the moment Jurgen had spotted her in the crowd and invited her onto his platform. Leo might have sent such a fierce look in the direction of countless others, but never to her.

And then, as quickly as it appeared, Leo took control of it. Banished it with a smile. “This is why you make such a fine pair, the two of you. Each as stubborn as the other.” He walked past her toward the door but turned abruptly only inches from her face. “I warn you, Annaliese, he will not be put off forever. What he wants, he gets. And for the good of Munich—indeed, all Germany—he should have it. Sooner rather than later. He may be as important as Eisner.”

“Parade the others in front of him, Leo,” was all she said before walking into the hall.

The smaller beer halls could no longer contain the kinds of crowds Jurgen drew, particularly when other speakers joined him—including Annaliese. And so they met on the streets, even now in December. The leaflets telling everyone about the rally listed only Jurgen’s name, but most of the rally attendees knew her anyway. That’s all they knew: Annaliese, as if that were her first name and last, like Jurgen. Even she knew him by only one name.

She had followed Jurgen’s example by design. While her father’s munitions factory outside the city might be a little fish compared to those here in Munich, she didn’t want to take the risk of linking her name to his. She needed to be trusted by the very population she most wanted to serve.

For nearly an hour, she and Jurgen spoke and cheered with the masses, but it wasn’t her own words or even Jurgen’s that held her attention. Leo’s words replayed in her mind. How easy it was to be united with Jurgen on a platform. To be stirred by his smiles, to feel the current that sparked between them when he held up her hand. They presented a connected pair and, in so doing, attracted both the men and the women who cheered before them.

Somehow it was more than the appearance of unity that seemed to bind them today. His message was more personal, more in tune not only with the needs of the people but with her own. Individual goals seemed selfish sometimes in light of the needs of so many—and yet beside him, speaking to those whose trust he’d inspired, she couldn’t help but feel set apart, distinct even from the other women who wanted to be near him, who had already been near enough to be cast aside. They were there in the crowd, she knew, but it was she whose voice echoed his, she whose hand he held, whose knuckles he kissed in the affirmation of the cheering crowd.

And she whom he wanted.

Was it only her mother’s latent warnings about being pure that had kept her away from Jurgen since she’d met him all those weeks ago? or a leftover touch of the faith Annaliese had abandoned when she walked away from her parents’ home?

Perhaps she needed to abandon the remnants of their rules and let the passions she’d found here in Munich dictate her behavior. Did her actions really matter, after all, if she didn’t hurt anyone? She’d thought everything mattered, once, if not for the moment, then for later. Some things had eternal consequences, or so she’d been told.

But here, now, everything she believed told her
this
was all she had. Life must be made better for everyone because life—
this
life—was their only chance.

Looking at Jurgen, standing beside him in the light of his power and charisma, she found it impossible not to want him. For now. He had his choice of any woman in their crowd, yet he’d chosen her.

What was the harm, anyway?

* * *

“This is a photograph of Annaliese Düray. Her family often took rooms here, whenever they were in Munich.”

“Ah, yes, one of the Düray daughters.” The woman behind the counter glanced up and tsked at Christophe, frowning and shaking her head, her double chin wobbling. “Is it true they lost one of their daughters to an accident in their factory? Ach, such a shame, such loss.”

“But this is the younger daughter, Annaliese. She’s here in Munich. Do you know where I can find her?”

The woman stared at the picture again, still shaking her head until Christophe repeated his question.

“She’s not here, not anymore. She was here for several days, but that was . . . oh, two months ago, at least.”

“And where did she go? Did she leave an address should she have any mail?”

“No, no . . . Oh, but wait. There is someone who might help you.” She started to say something but suddenly drew in a breath as if a thought had frozen her words. “Whom did you say you were, sir?”

“Christophe Brecht. A friend of the family.”

“And have you some proof of that? Why should I help you to find her? The family has always been very kind to me and generous. They’ve lost one child already. I don’t want something to happen to the only one they have left.”

“Herr and Frau Düray sent me to Munich to find Annaliese. To bring her home.”

She tsked again. “So she’s run off and left her parents. Such a shame, when they have only her now. Such a shame.”

“Did you say there was someone who might be able to help me find her?”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose you might ask the widow, Frau Haussman. She held the room next to Fräulein Düray, and the two of them were friendly. It’s possible they’ve kept in touch.”

“How can I find her, this Frau Haussman?”

“I’ll send someone to her room,” she said as she waved to a bellman nearby. Then she looked again at Christophe. “You wait.”

And so he did, pacing between the window and the glass door of the plush lobby. He’d been tempted to follow the bellman to the widow’s door but thought better of it under the hotel matron’s scrutiny.

When finally the bellman returned, he only shook his head and said no one had answered.

The woman behind the desk sent Christophe a sympathetic smile. “Frau Haussman often goes out for lunch, but I suppose she’ll be back before too long. You can wait in the café. It’s there, just beyond the double doors. Best stay inside today. There are a number of rallies going on again, and they’re getting more boisterous every day, all that shouting and carrying on about the election next month.” She frowned. “They’re all promising a better future, but I don’t know how every group can say that when all they do is argue about how to do such a thing.”

Christophe walked away, passing by the café. Instead, he went back to the street. Activity in this city was more frantic than he’d seen elsewhere, with flyers littering the streets, shops still closed, factories shut down. Wide avenues were jammed not with shoppers but with food lines or men protesting, marching, or simultaneously cheering and jeering at various rallies held in nearly every park or street corner. Not a smile to be found, just shouting and bristling.

And Annaliese was here; she chose to be. He’d thought of little else in the past few days since agreeing to search for her. He recalled her tagging along behind Giselle wherever she went; back then he’d been fond of her, although Giselle had seemed to think her a nuisance.

Annaliese hadn’t been at either of the other hotels her mother had suggested and no one had seen her, though a waiter at one of the hotel restaurants had provided a list of possible restaurants the Duräy family might have frequented, popular places with many of the regular guests. Christophe had chased all around the city but was running out of places to look.

“Take one of these, comrade,” said a man who thrust a leaflet at him.

Christophe barely glanced at it. He shoved it into his pocket, along with several others he’d been handed that day.

A motorcar skidded by, leaving a cloud of street dust behind. After that a cart pulled by a donkey ambled along, separating two bicycle riders with packets stacked above their rear wheels. Farther down the block, his ear caught the sound of a woman’s voice. Loud, boisterous, followed by cheers from a crowd more mixed than any of the others he’d seen. Mostly men, but some women were there too.

He walked along the edge, impressed by the size of the gathering and the fact that it was a woman who drew them together. Attentive faces stared as she touted a better future—the same message everyone offered these days, so he soon stopped listening. The future could hardly be worse than the past four years, so what good were such words? What they needed were open factories with paying jobs. They ought to stop the strikes and these protests that blamed everyone from the government to the military to factory owners; then everyone could get back to work.

He walked on, turning back now so he wouldn’t be far from the hotel. He would meet Frau Haussman and see if she could be of any help.

He was directed to a woman who sat in the vestibule of the hotel, a little white dog at her feet yapping his guardianship. When Christophe approached, she looked at him welcomingly despite the dog, which she pulled close and settled on her lap.

The widow was younger than he’d expected, but then there were so many widows in Germany these days. She was finely dressed, and though she wouldn’t be called pretty, she had a unique look that wasn’t altogether unappealing. Her nose was prominent but straight; her eyes too small and yet bright, as if details wouldn’t go long unnoticed. He briefly introduced himself and then asked her about Annaliese as he showed her the photograph.

“Yes, that’s Annaliese, isn’t it? Not the best likeness; she’s so much prettier in person.” She looked toward the door. “If only you’d caught me sooner, you could have accompanied me to her rally. I’ve just come from there.”

“You’ve just seen her at a rally?” He looked again at the quality of her clothing; most of the rallies held throughout the city attracted working-class listeners, not anyone dressed as finely as she.

“Yes, she was magnificent as always. So impassioned, so selfless. She inspires the rest of us toward the greatest hope and generosity.”

“Do you mean to say she spoke at the rally?”

Frau Haussman laughed. “Of course! If you go three blocks to the right, you might still catch the remnants of her group. I don’t know when she’ll be speaking again, but I can assure you it’ll be soon. Just look for the leaflets from the USPD.”

Christophe bowed with a thank-you, then hurried from the hotel, all the while pulling flyers from his pockets and discarding ones that said nothing about the USPD. The moment he spotted one with the picture of a woman, he stopped to study it.

It was taken from too great a distance to be identifiable, yet there was nothing in the photo to make him believe it couldn’t be her. The name on the leaflet belonged to someone else, however, an invitation to hear someone named Jurgen promising
Freiheit, Frieden, und Brot
—freedom, peace, and bread.

Had it been her, the woman speaking at the rally he’d passed not an hour ago? If so, he could surely find her before this day was out.

5

“There was something different about you today,
mein Herz
.” Jurgen brushed the top of Annaliese’s arm, a spot halfway between her elbow and shoulder. Hand in hand they’d led a procession through the streets, from the city center up to the Friedensengel. What better place to conclude their march and then disperse, full of hope, than at the foot of a statue commemorating peace?

Now they sat in the back of the truck, on benches that only recently had been padded to offer a more comfortable ride.

She might have admitted there was indeed something different about the way she felt today. But since she couldn’t define it for herself, she only smiled, letting him hold her gaze and ignoring Leo’s approving attention.

“There is another meeting this evening,” Jurgen said. “To prepare for the council tomorrow. You needn’t attend, but if I knew you waited for me, the meeting would go by all the quicker.”

“Why don’t I attend, too, then?” She didn’t have the direct access he had to those on the new council—those who had been allowed to take power after last month’s revolution. Only weeks ago, she’d been in the hotel while armed soldiers had driven through the streets of Munich and stationed themselves in front of nearly every public building. That was all it took for the government to surrender and warn the Bavarian royal family it could no longer protect them. They’d fled, putting an end to the Wittelsbach dynasty. Those behind the guns proclaimed Munich a republic of the Free State of Bavaria. On that day councils of workers and soldiers had proclaimed Kurt Eisner not only their leader but the new Bavarian prime minister.

It was an easy bandwagon to jump on, at least for idealist poets like Jurgen, power forces like Leo . . . and the guilty, like Annaliese herself. Eisner would make right the wrongs Germany had inflicted on its people, which was why, ever since that day, she worked so hard to make sure he won the election.

But as much as Jurgen told her he wanted women to have a voice, even claiming Germany had made the right decision by allowing women a vote, he had never agreed to have Annaliese or any other woman sit in on the meetings with those connected to the council. It had rankled her on other occasions, but tonight she wouldn’t let it.

“It isn’t yet time for your place on a council. But soon.” He raised one of her hands and kissed her fingertips. “You’ll have a powerful voice for women on their own council.”

Before long they were at an abandoned factory warehouse. It provided more than enough room to house a press for the flyers and pamphlets they produced, a roof and cots for bodyguards who weren’t on duty, as well as a private place to meet. It wasn’t as convenient as the butcher shop–turned–headquarters, but it was far larger.