LUDWIG-MAXIMILIANS-UNIVERSITÄT
MUNICH, GERMANY
MONDAY, MARCH 28, 1938
Peter Lang removed the wax cylinder from his Dictaphone, slid it into its cardboard tube, and wrote a number on the tube. “Sehr gut, Fräulein Wechsler. You made good use of the winter semester in your junior year abroad. Your German has improved much since I saw you in September.”
“Danke schön.” The Mount Holyoke student fiddled with a light brown curl. “I look forward to your class next semester.”
“Starting a week from today.” Peter shook her hand. “Thank you for helping with my research.”
“I’ll help in any way I can. Auf Wiedersehen.” She left Peter’s office, sending a smile over her shoulder.
At his desk, Peter checked his research log. With the thirty-four American students about to enter their second semester at the University of Munich and the following year’s class which would arrive in the fall, he’d obtain plenty of data for his dissertation.
“Guten Tag, Peter.” Professor Johannes Schreiber entered the office. “Wie geht’s?”
“Sehr gut, Herr Professor.” Peter shook the hand of his favorite professor from his own junior year in Munich. The man had lost some hair since then, but he’d kept the same warm smile. “Only three more recordings to make. The students have been generous with their time on their semester break.”
Professor Schreiber fingered the flexible steel tubing on the Dictaphone’s mouthpiece. “I’m glad, but I wish your research were more conventional. I fail to see how this will improve language learning.”
Stifling a groan, Peter straightened books on his desk. “I’ve found it helps if a student listens to himself and then to proper pronunciation. Also, I can compare recordings before and after the semester to show the effect of my teaching methods.”
“Your methods.” Professor Schreiber rubbed his chin and frowned at the machine. “Students learn best from immersion.”
“Naturally. That’s why my research compares my students at Harvard who did not have the benefit of immersion with the students here who do. That’s why I met this class in New York and recorded them before they sailed to Hamburg. I also recorded Harvard students with a different instructor—”
“It isn’t too late to find a new approach. You are here for a year.”
Peter drew a deep breath. Without Professor Schreiber’s blessing, he’d never receive his PhD. “What if I help Hans-Jürgen?”
“My son?”
“Ja. His English is good, but his accent is . . . not.”
The professor got a faraway look in his pale blue eyes. “I would like him to study in England or America.”
Peter spread his hand on the cool black Dictaphone case. “If I can improve his accent, may I continue my work?”
A smile dug into one cheek. “He is fond of you.”
“And I am fond of him. Do we have a deal?”
“Very well. Now you have a reporter visiting, ja?”
“Ja. A favor for a friend.”
After the professor departed, Peter checked his watch. Three minutes if she were the punctual sort. He closed his log and filed it away.
Poor George. He’d called to say he’d given Peter’s number to a firebrand female reporter who didn’t know her place. George was heaping on assignments to keep her out of trouble.
“Good luck.” Peter closed his file drawer. By definition, troublemakers made trouble.
“Entschuldigung?” A slender brunette knocked on his open door. Not a pretty woman, but . . . arresting. “Professor Peter Lang?”
“Just Mr. Lang until I receive my doctorate,” Peter said in English, and he strode over. She had a firm handshake born of working in a man’s profession, no doubt. “You must be Miss Firebrand.”
Medium-brown eyes looked up at him, lit by intelligence and humor. “My reputation precedes me.”
What had he said? “Pardon?”
“My name is Evelyn Brand, not Firebrand, despite what Mr. Norwood says.”
For heaven’s sake. “My apologies, Miss Brand. I assure you, the mistake was mine, not George’s.”
“No need to apologize.” The pleasure in her expression told him she’d probably repeat this story to all her friends.
“Please come in.” Fumbling for the remnants of his manners, he motioned her inside. “Would you rather go outside? The weather is chilly, but I enjoy it that way.”
“I do too, but I’d like to start in here. You can learn a lot about a person from his surroundings.” She shrugged off her overcoat.
Peter helped her and hung her coat on a hook. “All right, Miss Brand. What can you learn from my miniature graduate student office?”
At his bookcase she pulled out a few volumes. She cut a stylish figure in a gray suit and a red blouse with a red belt around her waist. Her hat had a man’s cut but with a feminine tilt, gray with a red bow. Even her shoes were gray and red.
Miss Brand slid a book back onto the shelf. “Your books tell me nothing that Nor—Mr. Norwood didn’t tell me. You’re studying the German language. But despite your recent arrival, everything is unpacked.”
This could be interesting. “I don’t procrastinate.”
“A Dictaphone?” She stroked the machine with the reverence it deserved. “What for?”
“My research. I’m—”
“Ah, your research. You’ll tell me about it in exceptional detail, I’m sure. But may I ask my questions first?”
He grinned. After the giggling junior year girls, Miss Brand was refreshing. “In my defense, I was answering your question.”
She chuckled. “You were.”
Peter leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Let the interrogation begin.”
“Your chair is beside your desk, not behind it.”
“I was meeting with a student.”
“And you prefer a non-adversarial role. May I?” Miss Brand gestured behind the desk.
“Be my guest. Watch out for the exploding cigars in the top drawer.”
She shot him a sly smile as she passed, dropped a red purse into his chair, and picked up a framed photograph from his desk. “Your family?”
“Yes.”
“Well, aren’t you all Aryan looking?” she said in a teasing voice, as she compared Peter to the photo. “All blond and—yes—blue-eyed.”
“One hundred percent German.”
“I’m 75 percent German, and I don’t look like that. Let’s see. You’re the third youngest of four boys. You look about ten in this photo. Have you always worn glasses?”
“I was nine, and I’ve worn glasses since first grade when I couldn’t see a thing on Miss Hathaway’s blackboard.”
Miss Brand squinted one eye at him. “Sometime between then and now, you broke your nose.”
Peter sucked in a breath, hearing again how that fist had crunched into his face, feeling rough hands shove him to the floor, seeing more rough hands beat his father to death, while Peter had lain there, too much of a weakling to save him.
“Fraternity brothers?”
Peter blinked and forced his focus onto the young lady, who held up a photograph of Peter with his three closest friends in their fraternity sweaters. “Yes. Now all of us are in Europe.”
“Nor—Mr. Norwood hasn’t changed.”
Peter stepped closer. “That’s Henning—Baron Henrik from Denmark. And Paul Aubrey runs an automobile factory near Paris.”
“That’s you.” She glanced him up and down quickly. “You’ve changed.”
Meaning he wasn’t a skinny weakling anymore. He’d made sure of that.
“You don’t have a Boston accent like my bureau chief.”
“I come from New York, the Albany area.”
“No picture of a wife or sweetheart. Either you’re unattached or you keep your wife’s photo at home, the better to lure pretty coeds.”
Peter heaved a mock sigh. “If only I were that scandalous. It would make a better story.”
“It would.” She scanned the office. “You’re very organized. Alles in Ordnung.”
Everything in order, as it should be. “Any more analysis, or shall we go for a walk?”
“A walk would be nice.”
Peter helped her on with her coat, slipped on his own coat and hat, and led her down the hallway. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Your turn?”
He squinted at her pointedly. “You’re from the Midwest, probably Chicago, judging by how you pronounce your Rs.”
Brown eyebrows rose. “Chicago born and bred.”
“You come from money, judging by your outfit.”
Miss Brand wrinkled her nose. “Well . . .”
“But you’re uncomfortable with being wealthy, which speaks well of your character, as does the fact that you chose a career rather than marrying your escort from your debutante ball.”
“I didn’t have a debutante ball.” She looked quite pleased about that.
Peter pressed a hand to his chest. “And your mother was sorely disappointed.”
Her mouth flopped open. “How did you . . . ?”
“Nor did you pledge a sorority.”
The hallway emptied into the atrium with its dark marble pillars and high white dome. Miss Brand’s heels clicked on the tiled floor, and she gave him a look both suspicious and admiring. “You could be a reporter, Mr. Lang.”
He bent in a small bow. “I’ll presume you mean that as a compliment and accept it as such.”
She laughed, low and melodic and not silly at all. “That’s enough. I’m here to interview you and to ask for contacts with other American students.”
“Happy to oblige. I’m teaching the German language course next semester for the junior year program. We have thirty-four exchange students.”
“Wonderful.” She climbed broad marble steps to the landing, pulling a notepad from her purse.
“Shall we find a bench?” He headed down the steps on the other side of the landing.
“I can walk and write.”
“Good. I’m a firm believer in fresh air and exercise.” He opened the door of the main building.
Unlike American universities with their sprawling, park-like campuses, the University of Munich had two long buildings facing each other across Ludwigstrasse, with a circular plaza in the middle. In the center of the plaza, a dozen students perched on the side of a large fountain, laughing and flirting.
Peter turned left on the path around the plaza. “I love how Germans are walkers and hikers.”
Miss Brand drew in a deep breath. “I like that too. My roommate and I go hiking in the Alps whenever I can tear her away from her music.”
“She’s a musician?”
“A flautist. A bit of a darling in the Munich music scene.”
“Not Elizabeth White?”
Miss Brand raised a smug smile. “I’ve known Libby since second grade.”
“Goodness.” He’d heard much about her but hadn’t heard her play.
“Once again, I’m here to interview you. Name—Peter Lang. Age . . . ?”
“Twenty-seven.” He led her beside the elegant, cream-colored building. “Harvard class of ’33, bachelor’s in German, working on my PhD in German at Harvard. Arrived in Munich on March 8 for a year of teaching and research, studying under the esteemed Dr. Johannes Schreiber, who was my professor during my own junior year here from 1931 to ’32. Does that take care of your preliminary questions?”
Miss Brand scribbled frantically, either in shorthand or in atrociously bad handwriting. “I’m adding ‘thorough’ to my description of you. And ‘slightly impudent.’”
Why on earth did George dislike this woman? “Only slightly impudent? I’ll have to try harder. Next question, Fräulein?”
“Just . . . a . . . minute.” She continued to scribble. “Johannes Schneider?”
“Schreiber.” Peter inhaled the crisp air under the cloudy sky.
“All right, Mr. Lang. What has been your greatest challenge here?”
George had warned that Miss Brand was determined to paint Germany in a bad light and to not let her lead him down that path. He shrugged. “Finding a car to purchase.”
“I love to drive.”
“I thought you loved to walk.”
“Yes, and I like to drive places where I can go walking.” He pictured Miss Evelyn Brand beside him in his Opel Admiral convertible, a kerchief tying back her hair, as he sped down the Olympic Road to hike through the wonders of the Partnach Gorge.
“Mr. Lang?”
“Hmm?” Had she asked another question?
One corner of her mouth twitched. “I asked if you’d had any other difficulties. Other than listening, that is.”
They’d reached Ludwigstrasse. Peter turned left and led her down the street toward the Siegestor. He was certainly making a fine impression. “Difficulties? Can’t say I have. I’m fluent in German, and I’m familiar with the culture. Although everything’s vastly different from when I was here in ’32.”
“I can imagine. I’d ask more about that, but your return is rather recent.”
“Long enough to see.” Peter strolled down the clean street, past shiny cars and smiling students. Back in ’32, Germany had been mired in poverty and unemployment, the people demoralized, while communist mobs spread terror.
The Siegestor rose before him, the triumphal arch as solid and sure as Germany’s recovery, crowned by a statue of Bavaria, her chariot drawn by four lions.
Now in 1938, the rest of the world struggled with the Great Depression, with strikes and riots and despair. But Germany prospered, with no unemployment, the people happy and secure. For all of Hitler’s reputation in America as a clownish gangster, he’d turned the country around.
Miss Brand flipped a page in her notebook. “How is the university experience different from in the US?”
Peter tipped his hat to two female students. “It’s coed, for one. I like that.”
“But the academic calendar confuses most Americans, with a winter semester running October through February and a summer semester April through July.”
“That is confusing.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Any problems with the German Students’ League?”
Fishing for criticism. Peter stifled a smile and led her onto the roundabout circling the Siegestor. “No problems at all.”
“I suppose teaching language wouldn’t violate Nazi policy. How about your experience living in Munich?”
“Wunderbar. Sausage, Bavarian sweet mustard, hiking, the opera.” An idea formed. “Although I haven’t heard Miss White perform.”
“You must. She’s incredible.”
“Aren’t you tired of hearing her play?”
“Never.” Miss Brand pushed a brown curl from her cheek, burnished red in the muted daylight. “I was practically raised at the symphony, so—”
“Wait. Brand? Chicago? You wouldn’t be related to Ernest Brand, the conductor?”
Her grin shone with pride. “My father.”
“Your . . .” Why, this woman only grew more interesting. “I took the train out to Chicago for one of his concerts.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that.”
His idea solidified. “Do you know when Miss White is performing next?”
“This Saturday.”
“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”
Miss Brand stopped and studied him, framed by the Siegestor’s central arch. “On one condition.”
“Anything,” he said, his hand to his heart.
“You need to be a good boy, stop getting distracted, and answer my questions.”
“I promise.” Although how on earth could he avoid getting distracted around such a fascinating creature?