Springtime of the Spirit (20 page)

Annaliese closed the door, reading the words on the page over the handkerchief at her nose. She saw instantly it was a poem and that the title was nothing other than her name—or the shortened version of it.
Anya.

She read it through once, then again, barely believing he could have been thinking of her when he wrote the words. Of springtime and hope and beauty, of energy and the inexplicable power of love—irresistible and mysterious, impossible to deny.

Not a hint of Communism.

It was simply a poem, words Jurgen had conjured for her. Words, both spoken and written, were his greatest gift. And here were some meant only for her. Beautiful words.

She wiped away the moisture from her eyes, suddenly unsure if it was the words on the page or the sickness in her head that dampened her handkerchief this time.

She set the poem on her desk along with the letters. Surely someone who wrote such words couldn’t join a group as violent as the Communists she feared. Part of her wanted to follow him down the stairs, to make sure nothing had changed, the way he said.

But she stayed in her room, knowing that he didn’t want to be around her while she felt so ill. It was just as well—she needed more rest.

So she went back to bed, more eager than ever to be healthy again. She needed to know where her future efforts would be best spent.

Annaliese shaded her eyes from the sun shining directly on her face. She’d forgotten to close the window coverings the night before. Forgotten to change from her skirt and blouse and into her nightdress. The sun almost made it look like spring outside, but that was still weeks away. The chill in her room reminded her that even such bright rays as these did little to cut winter’s touch.

She turned at the sound of a gentle tap at her door. Maybe it was Jurgen, to see how she was feeling this morning. “Yes?”

“Are you still sleeping?”

Christophe’s voice made her heart react in its usual, fluttery way, even though she wished otherwise. “I’m awake.”

She rose too quickly and her head throbbed. Slipping a shawl around her shoulders to cover at least some of the wrinkles in her blouse, Annaliese opened the door. There stood Christophe, snug in a sweater of his own, holding out a steaming mug and a plate of toasted bread.

“You weren’t at breakfast this morning, and Bertita told me you weren’t at dinner, either. I wasn’t here. Are you sick or just back to work?”

Seeing Christophe so neat and fresh, smiling so warmly, made her aware of her own unkemptness. Smoothing down what was sure to be a nest of hair atop her head, she reached out to take the hot mug. It was just what her throat, dry and sore, needed. Through the one nostril that still worked, she smelled a hint of honey.

“Oh! This is wonderful. I’m not sure about the toast, though.”

“Dunk it.”

She smiled. Soggy bread didn’t appeal to her, but it was probably the only way she would be able to swallow anything of substance.

Annaliese turned away from him then, savoring a sip of the hot tea, and to her surprise heard him follow her inside. Christophe was at her bed, holding up the blankets.

“Get under the covers,” he said. “Here, give me that until you’re settled.” He took the tea and toast and put it on the table beside her bed.

She should most definitely send him away, but surely not even her mother would object. He was only doing what she would have done had she been there: tucking her in.

After covering her, he took another pillow from the chair by the window, something she’d wanted earlier but hadn’t been willing to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed to retrieve. Placing it behind her back, he pulled the covers up to her chin, then reached for the tea.

“Where did you find honey?” she asked.

“From Mama, at the restaurant. And the tea flakes, too. She said it would be good for any mood, from an ailment to overwork.”

Annaliese smiled, letting the hot steam break through the swollen interior of her nose. “Thank you, Christophe.”

“What else do you need? company? or just a book? maybe paper to write on?”

He went to the desk and there, on top of the letters she’d been answering yesterday, was the poem Jurgen had written for her. She said nothing, watching Christophe as his gaze was caught.

He didn’t even attempt to hide that he read something so personal. Christophe picked it up with one hand while with his other he turned the chair toward the bed and took a seat.

“Annaliese,” he said softly when he finished reading, “do you want me to leave?”

“I . . . I suppose sleep is the only thing I need right now.”

“No, Annaliese.” He wasn’t accepting her stall. “I mean do you want me to leave Munich? leave you alone? with him?”

The weight on her chest, in her head, in her nose . . . in her heart . . . felt too much to bear just then. Why was he asking her this? Because of the poem? Or did he want to leave, be done with the assignment he’d been hired by her parents to do?

“He said nothing has changed, that he still wants what’s best for everyone,” Annaliese said. “He knew about all the work I’ve been doing lately. The same sort of work we’ve always done.”

“I wouldn’t expect him to say anything yet. I asked him about it too—bluntly, the only way I know how.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She wanted to feel relieved, wanted to believe Jurgen was still the same man he’d been before the loss of the election. “Then nothing has changed.”

Christophe shrugged, then made his way to the door.

“Are they paying you to stay here, watching me?” She’d called the words after him in spite of herself. She shouldn’t want to draw out this visit, but these past days of work and sickness had left her lonesome.

“Your parents? They offered to do that, yes, but—”

“Then consider yourself free of whatever obligation you felt. I’ll send them a letter if you like, telling them you were every bit the watchdog they meant you to be, in case you’re worried they won’t pay you for the time you’ve been here already. I’ll tell them your services are not required.”

Was that the hint of a frown? She’d hurt his feelings! Part of her was pleased, but she reminded herself he would count himself less than a gentleman if she believed him only motivated by monetary decisions. Even if he was.

“I like the idea of your sending them a letter,” he said. “It’s a start, anyway.”

She shrugged.

“If you can’t blame me anymore, you blame
them
for Giselle’s death, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t look at him. He didn’t know, he couldn’t know, how accurate his guess was.

“You lost your sister, but they lost a daughter. Have you forgotten that? Do you really think their greed is bigger than their love for you or Giselle? If you do, you don’t know them at all. You don’t know me, either. What if I told you I’d be happy to deliver the letter, but that I would return here the same day? that I’m here watching over you because it’s exactly where I want to be, whether or not your parents had a say in it? that even now, with your red nose and crumpled dress, I might not want to leave your side?”

The knife in her throat jabbed her as she swallowed, but she suddenly wondered if she might be hallucinating. Maybe she was more sick than she realized. Did hallucinations come with the sniffles? Perhaps she did have the influenza.

He appeared to be waiting for her to reply, but she didn’t know what to say, at least not without making herself vulnerable to what she hoped he had meant.

He returned to her bedside, leaning over her. “Whether it’s true or not, Annaliese, I’m convinced you need me. If only to remind you of your parents’ love. And God’s.”

She released the breath she’d held. God again. . . . Christophe always spoke on behalf of God or her parents, never for himself.

“Don’t feel obligated,” she whispered, then took another sip of the soothing tea to mend her sore throat.

He stood straighter, turning away but going only as far as the chair by her desk. “I don’t. Somehow you make everything I say or do sound different from what I mean it to be. So I suggest you not talk. I won’t either. Let me just sit here with you. I’ll wait until you’re finished with the tea and I’ll return the cup to Bertita. I’ll bring more if you like. But don’t speak. All right?”

She started to tell him to go, claim she didn’t need a nursemaid, but held back. It hurt to talk, anyway.

And the undeniable truth was, she didn’t want him to leave. Not Munich. Not this room. Not her.

Christophe sat as promised, without saying a word, offering his company until she’d finished the tea and toast. In peaceful silence.

22

February 21, 1919

Annaliese tucked a handkerchief into the pocket of her jacket but doubted she would need it. She felt much better today—and just in time. She needed to go out on this day especially, as a show of support for Eisner and regret that his role in Bavarian politics would be more limited than it was before.

The flat was empty when she went downstairs. She knew Christophe had left already; he had tapped on her door with tea and toast again, telling her he would be at the warehouse if she didn’t need anything else.

Leo and Jurgen would join the council members today, though she had hoped they would wait for her. But even they were gone.

So she hurried out, making her way along the Promenadenplatz, tripping on one of the streetcar rails. She headed toward the Bavarian Chamber; the public gallery was probably already full, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to greet Herr Eisner on his way in so he would know he would be missed.

Even now, she could barely believe he had so soundly lost the election. More incredible still was that the council—the council their November revolution had created—would meet in one wing of this building while in another wing, the eight ministers of the Provincial Assembly would gather to hear Eisner’s resignation.

Surely Eisner still had plans, particularly for the council of which Jurgen was a member. She took comfort in that; somehow they would remain united in their support for the people. Jurgen wouldn’t abandon Eisner, no matter what Christophe thought. How could he, after working so hard for him?

A loud bang in the distance startled her, like a clanging of two metal cans or the backfire of an engine. Then another pop and another. She’d never heard such banging before, sounds close in succession, and she quickened her step.

A boy ran past her, nearly knocking her from her feet. She would have turned and cautioned him to slow down, or at least mind his manners, but he was gone so quickly, she knew he would pay no heed. He was just a boy, after all.

She walked no farther than a dozen steps before hearing shouts from around the corner, voices bouncing off the tarnished brick-and-mortar buildings. Hope sprang up. Perhaps it was a rally. A protest against Eisner’s resignation. But wouldn’t she have known about such a thing? She rushed toward the sounds.

Instead of the earnest clamor of a rally, chaos greeted her. Men shouted, people ran—both men and women, young and old. A few onlookers stood frozen in their step, while some pointed down the avenue.

“Shot him!”

“He fell there—he’s there!”

“A man yelled, ‘Down with the revolution!’ and shot him, just so.”

“And see the blood! Look, you can see it through the crowd.”

Annaliese followed their directions, and horror sprouted through her confusion. People clustered around a body splayed out on the street. Outside the crowd, others ran one way or the other, to or fro, as if no one knew which way to go.

Annaliese darted forward, then stopped, sickened at the sight between those swarming around the fallen man. So much blood, and the body only partially visible. But the name rang around her, repeated from every side as if it ricocheted from one set of lips to another.

Eisner,
she heard through one ear.

Eisner,
in the other.

The name resounded in her head, whether or not those around her still said it aloud. Already, police whistles burst through the sounds. New shouts, demands for order and authority overrode those of fear and chaos. The fringes of the crowd dissipated, and she heard the news spread along the street until the same sound came from everywhere.

“Eisner! Shot dead.”

“Right on the street!”

Annaliese stepped backward, away from the police who were already making arrests. Some cried out that they were only witnesses but were carried off in a police cart anyway, while Eisner’s body was left on the street. That no one bothered to tend him confirmed the truth. He really must be dead.

Fear and confusion filled Annaliese. She tore her gaze from what she could see of Eisner’s body, looking at those around her instead. In their fear-sparked excitement, none of them understood the loss—not even her. What would it mean to the councils? to Jurgen? How could anyone on this street know what would happen if Eisner was really gone?

News of the shooting outpaced her as she headed back toward the Assembly Building. Every step she took echoed the shock. Eisner—dead! The path she followed was the same one he would have taken to the Assembly Building for his resignation. The image of his body dizzied her, but no other picture could squeeze in to take its place.

Guards surrounded the Assembly Building already—guards who wouldn’t let her in.

“I need to go in!” she protested. “I work with Jurgen, and he is there with the council. I need to speak to him.”

The guard only shook his head, ignoring her as more people approached from behind. He told them all to go away.

But she didn’t. She would wait. All day, if necessary.

“Annaliese!”

She didn’t know when her name had become entwined with the growing noise around her. The crowd had thickened, all wanting access to the same building as she. What did everyone want but the same thing? Assurance that inside this building someone was still in power, still there to set limits. If any authority was to be found, it would be found right here, inside this place of power.