Free Springtime of the Spirit by Maureen Lang

want to believe in something better than that.”
    The man laughed as if Christophe’s honesty was refreshing. Then he leaned closer, his gaze intent. “You’re what I hope walks through that door every day, young man. A slate upon which to write the truth. You’re looking for it, and we have it.”
    He grabbed a pamphlet from the desk behind them. “Here, take this home with you. And this.” He pulled another from a different stack. “Read these and see if you agree that what we want will make Germany a better place. And isn’t that what we all want? We’ve been disgraced, betrayed by the monarchy, and handed over by the High Command. Now it is our turn to lead. The people’s turn.”
    The words were as firm as any general’s, though Christophe thought neither lofty generals nor common people would welcome any link to the other, even one of comparison.
    “I’ll read them.” Then he turned to Annaliese. “Perhaps I might speak with you before I go?”
    “Actually, I think she’s needed,” said the man behind the desk, who also stood. His gaze went past them, to the artist in the corner, who was waving their way. “But if it’s a quick word, that might be all right.”
    Christophe nodded and followed her halfway toward the artist. “Will you meet me later, when you’re finished here?”
    She didn’t look at him. “I’m busy until very late.”
    “Your parents,” he whispered, “want very much to see you. They’re leaving Germany and want to see you about it. To talk to you.”
    At least now she looked at him as if to see if he was telling the truth. “Leaving?”
    “Yes. For America.”
    Her lips tightened. “Good.”
    She tried walking away, but he caught her wrist. He hadn’t meant to touch her, but he couldn’t think of any other way to stop her without raising his voice loud enough for others to hear.
    “You won’t see them?”
    Annaliese shook her head, tugging at the wrist he still held firmly.
    “I thought everyone in this room believed in the brotherhood of man. How does that not extend to your parents?”
    “Leave me alone.” She ripped her hand from his and allowed no more than a glimpse into her eyes before turning away. But it was enough to see something he hadn’t noticed before, something that made him want to refuse her demand. She wasn’t angry with him for his persistence. It wasn’t anger he saw. It was pain.
    She kept her back to him once she reached the artist at the window.
    Christophe was sure she wouldn’t give him so much as another glance. Yes, she certainly had grown bristles, and they grew on a strong backbone.
    He left the party office feeling every bit the failure. There was no getting used to defeat.

9
    “We’re no longer under the thumb of the industrialists, not with our voices echoing from one corner of Germany to the other. Even now, men of our council are working for an eight-hour workday and for wages to be more evenly distributed.”
    Annaliese paused for the cheers, holding up her hand to stay the noise in favor of them hearing more. “We’re willing to do what Germans do—we value work and production and discipline. We’re willing to do our part and end the strikes, work toward production so we can share the fruits of our labor. For a better Germany—a fairer Germany!”
    More cheers. She sensed the crowd’s increasing energy, half in approval of her words, half in anticipation of seeing Jurgen. She saw their faces, not as one mass of people but as countless individuals with lives of their own, with dreams and fears and hopes and worries. So many needs that could easily be met if only they worked and shared.
    She was nearly ready to hand them over to Jurgen . . . and then she saw Christophe.
    How long had he been there? Sticking to the edge, the outskirts of the crowd, where loners tended to be—those independent ones who never came, like others did, in hordes. There he was, his eyes so fixed on hers it was as if the rest of the