SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1938
After a pat to the ruby-studded comb in her hair, Evelyn opened her apartment door. “Good evening, Mr. Lang.”
“Good evening, Miss Brand.” He wore white tie attire with a top hat in his white-gloved hands, and a slow sweep of his gaze led to a slow smile. “You look . . . radiant.”
“Thank you. Please come in while I fetch my things.” She stepped inside, the silver brocade brushing her ankles.
Peter Lang didn’t look half-bad himself. The black cutaway coat accentuated his tall, athletic build, and his wavy blond hair shone.
“That dress is stunning,” he said. “And please call me Peter.”
“Thank you. Please call me Evelyn.” She transferred items from her daytime black leather handbag to a red satin clutch, cramming her smallest notebook inside.
She’d enjoy his appreciative looks and words while they lasted. The first date eliminated men who didn’t like intelligent women. The second date weeded out those who assumed a modern career woman had loose morals. On the third date, if the man hadn’t realized Evelyn was too much to handle, she helped him figure it out.
“Is this where you work?” Peter frowned at her Smith-Corona typewriter and the papers strewn about.
Perhaps she should have picked up, but she refused to hide who she was even to get a full three dates from a man.
“Yes.” She pulled on long white gloves. “But when Libby’s not home, it’s too quiet, and I work at a darling café on Gärtnerplatz.”
Evelyn reached for the cape draped over her desk chair.
Peter laid it around her shoulders, then he held open the door.
“Thank you.” She descended the stairs and stepped out into the chilly evening, the smell of spent rain in the air. A black cab awaited. “I’d hoped you’d bring that car you’re so fond of.”
“I would have if I knew I could find parking on Türkenstrasse.” He opened the cab door for her.
Evelyn slid in and gathered her skirts inside.
Peter circled to the other door, climbed in, and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Das Tonhalle, bitte.”
He settled back in the seat with his top hat in his lap. “With a conductor for a father, you must have had musical training.”
Her cape pulled across her throat, and she adjusted it. “I play the viola, but not well. I have no patience for scales.”
The cab passed a streetlamp, which illuminated Peter’s amused expression. “I played the cello and not well at all. But I did enjoy it.”
“That’s what matters.”
“Did your father want you to follow in his footsteps?”
“At first.” Evelyn shrugged. “Then I told him words are my music. He understood, and now he’s my greatest champion.”
“Good. My father supported my goals too.”
He spoke in the past tense, and his wistful tone hinted at a story. But Evelyn buttoned her lips. This was a date, not an interview.
“Speaking of your musical words, how is your article on the students coming along?”
“Good. I’ve interviewed a dozen students, and I hope to interview a few more.” Surely she could find one student who’d seen past the shiny façade of Nazi prosperity to the darkness underneath. Although the juniors had been in Munich since September, all were bewitched.
“Is that why you agreed to come tonight? Follow-up questions?” A teasing note lifted his voice.
“Oh no. I’m afraid I extracted every interesting morsel from you.”
He heaved a sigh. “I tried to manufacture a scandal but failed.”
“Perhaps you could have an affair with the wife of a Nazi bigwig.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid I’m the chivalrous, churchgoing sort.”
Like Evelyn’s father, brother, and grandfathers—a good sort. Evelyn played along and heaved her own sigh. “Too bad. How about theft? Murder?”
“What’s the story, dollface?” He affected a gangster voice. “Who do you want me to knock off? Say the word and—” He snapped his fingers.
Evelyn couldn’t resist. “George Norwood?”
Peter broke out laughing. “He’s my oldest friend.”
“Very well, but it sure would help my career.”
“He warned me about you. I should have listened.”
Somehow the warmth in his voice melted her more than a hundred compliments would have. For one moment she pictured a fourth date. A good-night kiss.
Who was she kidding? Next thing she knew, he’d be ordering her to wear florals and to stop speaking her mind on unfeminine topics like current events.
The cab arrived at the Tonhalle, and Peter helped her out and offered an arm sturdier than expected from a professor-in-training. With her free hand, Evelyn lifted her skirts so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face climbing the steps.
Inside the concert hall, Peter checked in his hat and Evelyn’s cape. The lobby chandeliers cast light on women in colorful gowns and men in uniform or white tie. So many hands knifed up in the Nazi salute it was a wonder no one was hurt.
A tall man in a field gray Army officer’s uniform smiled at her. “Ah, Fräulein Brand. Heil, Hitler!”
Evelyn dropped a curtsy. “Guten Abend, Herr General. May I introduce Herr Peter Lang, an American doctoral student at the university. Herr Lang, this is General Ulrich Gerlach.”
The men shook hands, then the general introduced the very young woman at his side as Fräulein Magda Müller. Fräulein Müller’s platinum hair didn’t match her dark brown eyebrows, and she certainly wasn’t Frau Gerlach, mother of the general’s four grown children.
Evelyn greeted her warmly. Disgruntled mistresses often became her best informants.
Peter smiled over Fräulein Müller’s head. “I didn’t know they’d be here. Excuse me, Herr General, Fräulein, but I would like to introduce Fräulein Brand to a dear friend.”
After they said good-bye, Peter led Evelyn across the lobby to a middle-aged couple. “Professor Schreiber, Frau Schreiber, what a pleasure to see you.”
“Guten Abend, Peter.” The professor beamed and turned to Evelyn. “Who is this lovely lady?”
“May I introduce Fräulein Evelyn Brand. She’s a correspondent with the American News Service.”
Despite her shock, Evelyn managed to say her how-do-you-dos. In a social setting, men never introduced women with their job titles. They only did so for fellow men.
A friendly smile creased Frau Schreiber’s round face. “How long have you known our Peter?”
“Only a few days. I interviewed him for a story on Monday.”
“Have no fear, Fräulein.” Crinkles radiated around the professor’s light eyes. “Peter will take care of those Rs and Ls for you. U-umlaut too, Peter?”
His expression sobered. “I’m afraid so, Herr Professor.”
Evelyn turned a quizzical look to her date.
He grinned. “I’ll explain. Shall we find our seats?”
Peter tucked Evelyn’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her through the lobby. “I grew up speaking both English and German. My mother’s family emigrated from Germany when she was eighteen. After the Great War, she was treated poorly because of her thick accent. I wanted to help her, so I analyzed how we Americans pronounce certain phonemes and how she pronounced them. Then I trained her, and we eliminated her accent almost entirely.”
What a sweet picture that painted. “How kind of you.”
He led her into the hall and down the aisle lit by chandeliers and resounding with the orchestra’s warm-up. “When I took German in high school, I analyzed the other side, why my American friends had troubles with sounds in German. My teacher didn’t like my meddling, so I started a German club and taught my classmates.”
“Extraordinary.” How many young people would do such a thing?
He dipped his head modestly. “That’s the focus of my dissertation. I hope to revolutionize the teaching of foreign languages.”
“That’s fascinating.” She found her seat and arranged her skirts. “By the way, I despise u-umlauts.”
“Most Americans do, but the sound isn’t that difficult. I could teach you.” The invitation curled his lips in an enticing way.
However, the night was young, so Evelyn gave a noncommittal nod and studied the chamber orchestra. “I love this sound.”
“You do?” Peter smiled at her. “It’s a mess.”
“Yes, but the mess means beauty is coming.”
His smile deepened, and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Evelyn had told Libby he wasn’t unattractive. She’d have to amend that—he was definitely attractive, even if many women would disagree. The wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a kindly professor, but the crooked nose and a scar on his chin lent his face character. And his eyes were the deep gray-blue of her mother’s Wedgwood vases.
She tapped her white-gloved fingers on her gray silk lap—one finger, two fingers, three. One date, two dates, three. Her pinky settled down to her lap, and her thumb lowered.
No. She tucked it into her palm. No fourth date. Absolutely no fifth date.
The orchestra silenced, and so did the audience. The first violinist came out to applause, and then the conductor. Then came Libby, resplendent in a floor-length black gown with her long brown hair done up in curls and loops like a Grecian goddess.
Evelyn resisted the urge to applaud uproariously, but she exchanged a grin with Peter.
The chamber orchestra began to play Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s Flute Concerto in D minor, and Libby swayed with the music, her flute bobbing and circling. The notes flitted like a flock of butterflies, darting and weaving and sweeping, always in motion. Evelyn heard her practice every day, but with an orchestra behind her, the effect was glorious.
For her second piece, Libby played Handel’s Sonata in F, one of her favorites, and it showed. All too soon, the conductor lowered his baton for the intermission.
Evelyn and Peter rose. She took his arm, and they headed up the aisle.
“I can see why Miss White receives so many accolades,” Peter said.
“I remember when she started flute lessons and cried because she couldn’t make a sound.”
“She certainly overcame that. I wish my friend Paul Aubrey could hear her. He traveled to Chicago with me for your father’s concert.”
Paul Aubrey . . . she’d heard that name before. “One of your Harvard pals?”
“Yes.” Peter sent her an appreciative look. “He runs a factory in Paris, a subsidiary of the family business.”
Evelyn smiled at memories of the Seine and baguettes and stimulating café conversations. “I lived in Paris for two years. It was wonderful.”
“Not anymore. Aubrey’s having a terrible time.”
“Really? How strange.”
Peter led her to an open spot in the lobby and faced her, his expression stern. “The communists have ruined everything.”
“Communists?” She spoke in a low voice—not a word one wanted to use in Germany.
“Have you heard? They’re striking in Paris, rioting, occupying factories, including Aubrey’s.”
“I—I’ve heard.”
“That’s the problem with them.” The hardening of Peter’s face and voice was swift and startling. “They have no respect for property, for negotiation, for life.”
Evelyn eased back and gazed around the lobby filled with Nazis. The same could be said of other factions.
“That’s what’s so refreshing about Germany,” Peter said.
Evelyn’s gaze jumped back to him. “Refreshing?”
“Yes. When I was here in ’32, communist mobs roamed the streets. No one was safe.”
She fought to keep the shock off her face. Had he forgotten the Nazi mobs of the time?
“But not anymore,” Peter said.
Only the presence of so many Nazi uniforms kept Evelyn from speaking her mind. The communists didn’t roam the streets anymore because they were in concentration camps. So were the socialists and the Social Democrats and anyone who dared speak against the regime, even pastors and priests.
Peter adjusted his glasses, and the glare concealed the blue. “Now the streets are safe, the people are happy, and there’s order in the land.”
American and British correspondents constantly complained about the tourists and students who saw the low unemployment and the new buildings and declared the Nazis weren’t as bad as the mean old newspapers said.
For some reason, she’d expected better from Peter Lang.
Evelyn’s hand rested flat by her side against her brocade skirt, and she rolled her fingers around her thumb. One, two, three, four. She would be charming and polite for the remainder of the evening, but there would be no second date.