cooled.
“Until tonight,” he said, pulling away.
And then he let her go.
* * *
Christophe neared the woman pulling in laundry, noticing her attention was clearly drawn to something inside the kitchen. He topped the last step behind her and followed her gaze with his own.
In time to see Annaliese in Jurgen’s arms.
He must be twenty years her senior! Nearly as old as her father!
An immediate notion to barge in crossed his mind, past the woman watching from just outside the door in the chilly morning air. He would demand Jurgen leave Annaliese alone.
But then it all became clear; that embrace, that kiss—they were hardly one-sided. She’d welcomed him.
Christophe backed away, straight into a frigid sheet dangling on the line. Wordlessly, without apology, blindly, he took the opposite end of the material and together, as if by design, he and the woman stretched it taut; then with two steps he handed it to her to finish folding.
She thanked him, but he couldn’t respond, not even a murmur. He left the porch and started walking, barely paying attention to his direction.
12
The women Annaliese met with that day were eager to talk to her. These were workingwomen, some of them supporting their families while their husbands—returned soldiers unable to find a job or others let go from factories still transitioning from war goods to civilian needs—looked for work. Others were unmarried women like Annaliese, drawn to the city from various agricultural villages, enjoying the independence their jobs provided. She knew if the war had afforded any favors, it was emancipation from the few roles previously available to women like her.
She welcomed the diversion, their enthusiasm, the questions and discussions about the privilege of voting for the first time in their lives. The world of politics had never been an option for them, and they were eager to hear her views on fairness and equality for everyone, about the People’s Council who would speak for them so long as they were not dissolved should another party win the election. They were even eager to donate a few coins of their hard-earned wages in support of Eisner, because he’d been chosen by the council.
Working felt natural to her. It was not just a mindless way of escaping from more personal things on her mind. She contributed to the future of Germany by educating women who very much wanted to learn what she had to teach. And she added to the party coffers every time she spoke, no matter where she went.
But escape she must, not only from wondering if Christophe would return to work with their party, but from thoughts of Jurgen and what he expected of her when she saw him that night.
By the time Annaliese returned to the party office, it was late in the day. She’d extended her workday as long as she could, but with each footstep toward the butcher shop came thoughts of Jurgen, waiting.
It was times like this she missed Nitsa. Though Annaliese had known Nitsa all her life, they’d only become close friends shortly after Annaliese had caught her stealing money from the payroll office at the factory. She’d made Nitsa return it but had promised to give her something from her parents’ home that would bring nearly as much on the black market as the puny sum Nitsa had managed to steal. Her parents had never missed the silver candlesticks they’d stored in the back pantry.
“Why would being alone with Jurgen be unpleasant now,” Nitsa would ask Annaliese if she were here, “when only a week ago you thought you wanted to be with him? to give yourself to him? What’s changed?”
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
The whole situation reminded Annaliese of a painting her father once owned, one Annaliese wanted to give to Nitsa to sell. But for some reason on the very day Annaliese had planned to remove it, her father had taken it from the closet where it had been stored. Everyone thought it had been the work of a minor artist from right here in Munich.
“Until tonight,” he said, pulling away.
And then he let her go.
* * *
Christophe neared the woman pulling in laundry, noticing her attention was clearly drawn to something inside the kitchen. He topped the last step behind her and followed her gaze with his own.
In time to see Annaliese in Jurgen’s arms.
He must be twenty years her senior! Nearly as old as her father!
An immediate notion to barge in crossed his mind, past the woman watching from just outside the door in the chilly morning air. He would demand Jurgen leave Annaliese alone.
But then it all became clear; that embrace, that kiss—they were hardly one-sided. She’d welcomed him.
Christophe backed away, straight into a frigid sheet dangling on the line. Wordlessly, without apology, blindly, he took the opposite end of the material and together, as if by design, he and the woman stretched it taut; then with two steps he handed it to her to finish folding.
She thanked him, but he couldn’t respond, not even a murmur. He left the porch and started walking, barely paying attention to his direction.
12
The women Annaliese met with that day were eager to talk to her. These were workingwomen, some of them supporting their families while their husbands—returned soldiers unable to find a job or others let go from factories still transitioning from war goods to civilian needs—looked for work. Others were unmarried women like Annaliese, drawn to the city from various agricultural villages, enjoying the independence their jobs provided. She knew if the war had afforded any favors, it was emancipation from the few roles previously available to women like her.
She welcomed the diversion, their enthusiasm, the questions and discussions about the privilege of voting for the first time in their lives. The world of politics had never been an option for them, and they were eager to hear her views on fairness and equality for everyone, about the People’s Council who would speak for them so long as they were not dissolved should another party win the election. They were even eager to donate a few coins of their hard-earned wages in support of Eisner, because he’d been chosen by the council.
Working felt natural to her. It was not just a mindless way of escaping from more personal things on her mind. She contributed to the future of Germany by educating women who very much wanted to learn what she had to teach. And she added to the party coffers every time she spoke, no matter where she went.
But escape she must, not only from wondering if Christophe would return to work with their party, but from thoughts of Jurgen and what he expected of her when she saw him that night.
By the time Annaliese returned to the party office, it was late in the day. She’d extended her workday as long as she could, but with each footstep toward the butcher shop came thoughts of Jurgen, waiting.
It was times like this she missed Nitsa. Though Annaliese had known Nitsa all her life, they’d only become close friends shortly after Annaliese had caught her stealing money from the payroll office at the factory. She’d made Nitsa return it but had promised to give her something from her parents’ home that would bring nearly as much on the black market as the puny sum Nitsa had managed to steal. Her parents had never missed the silver candlesticks they’d stored in the back pantry.
“Why would being alone with Jurgen be unpleasant now,” Nitsa would ask Annaliese if she were here, “when only a week ago you thought you wanted to be with him? to give yourself to him? What’s changed?”
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
The whole situation reminded Annaliese of a painting her father once owned, one Annaliese wanted to give to Nitsa to sell. But for some reason on the very day Annaliese had planned to remove it, her father had taken it from the closet where it had been stored. Everyone thought it had been the work of a minor artist from right here in Munich.
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