mud of no-man’s-land.
He looked over his shoulder again. There were shadows back there. Not of men, but of . . . what? He didn’t know.
Did any of them remember how it was when they marched—yes, really marched—in the other direction? Songs echoed from every avenue, praise and flowers showered them from smiling women, and proud pats resounded on the back from fathers and old men.
He told himself to look up again. He could see far down the road. They’d been made to get off the train on the outskirts of the city, not far from Christophe’s village. So he shoved away old thoughts of how this day was supposed to be. No victory parades to greet them, no flowers. No woman to kiss him now that he was home. Just silence.
He stared ahead under the bright sunlight. His vision was clear, something the army had taken advantage of when they’d trained him to be a sniper these past two years. Most likely many men beside him couldn’t see as far as he could—the series of signs on poles before them with splashes of red, in flags, in backdrop. Political signs he hadn’t seen the likes of since before the war. Back when people still talked about such things, when the German voice wasn’t the single one it had turned into during the war.
Then he saw it. An older poster, a bit tattered in the wind. The Kaiser’s face, easily recognizable with his moustache and uniform. A call to arms.
Christophe tore his gaze away, to the sky, back to his boots. He’d answered that call; so had each of those who trod at his side. A call that had ended this way.
Rumor had it the Kaiser had fled Germany. Good riddance. But somehow having him step down, even in disgrace, wasn’t enough. If what they said about the armistice was true—that Germany was to blame for the war—then the world hated them. Hated all of them for how the Kaiser and his cronies, both aristocratic and military, had pushed them into this war.
Hated them almost as much as Christophe hated himself for all he’d done while in it.
His pace picked up before he knew it; blood pumped as wildly as it had during any fight with the British or French, either in offense or defense. He reached for a rock and hurled it at the Kaiser’s image. It landed with a thud directly between the eyes.
Another rock, then more, along with a grunt here and there, a muffled cry. Were they his? No. A few men broke ranks and hurled themselves at what was left of the poster.
All his life Christophe needed something to cling to. His parents, a schoolmaster, the church, his commanding officer. In the trenches, other soldiers. And Christ.
Hate filled him now, and he clung to that.
Christophe held back another rock in his hand—no need to throw it; the poster had disappeared.
* * *
“And so, fellow Germans! The calendar may say autumn, but in fact we are in the springtime of Germany. The winter of an unjust war is behind us. New life buds for all of us. Are there storms in spring? Yes, but the squalls bring us the energy we need for change. We can build our country anew and model for all—for ourselves and for our neighbors, with the world’s eye on us—that we speak as one voice, a voice of men, of women, all of us together.”
She barely paused, although the crowd was already beginning to cheer. She read the same fervor on every face; it was like a wave passing over those gathered, binding them together, uniting them. All of them, no matter what walk of life separated them beyond this crowd, now—together—were one.
“They’ll hear us speak of protecting and not exploiting our fellow citizens. They’ll hear of our compassion for those in need, feel it in the plans Jurgen has for Germany. We’ll no longer be stomped by the yoke of a monarchy or under the oppression of warmongers. We will be free—yes, really free—to live in the peace our men fought for. Peace! Freedom! Fairness!”
Annaliese Düray reveled in the jubilation, in the immediate approval of her call. They outmatched her voice, which was a considerable thing because her voice was bigger than she was—especially on this platform. Hands raised, she lifted her cry even louder, momentarily proud of the timbre she’d inherited from her onetime schoolmarm mother. Not strident like a screeching woman but mid-toned, boisterous, easy on the ear even