SUNDAY, APRIL 10, 1938
Snow in April and on a day when Evelyn had a chance to get a story. She stamped her feet on the sidewalk outside the church the government had commandeered as a polling place—on a Sunday, no less.
Three women walked out, and Evelyn approached with her notepad. “Guten Morgen. I’m Evelyn Brand with the American News Service. May I interview you about the plebiscite?”
“For America?” A white-haired woman smiled up at her from under a fur-trimmed hat. “Ach, how exciting.”
“Imagine our names in a newspaper in America,” the youngest lady said, clad in a fashionable green coat.
Evelyn led them away from the entrance. The correspondents in Berlin would get the main bylines for the articles on the national election, but only Evelyn would write about the women’s angle. ANS might actually pick it up.
“Are you related?” Evelyn asked. “You have the same lovely shade of blue eyes.”
“My daughter and my granddaughter,” the oldest woman said. “We voted ‘Ja.’”
Evelyn took notes. “You voted in favor of the Anschluss, the unification of Germany and Austria.”
“It is all Germany now.” The daughter’s heavyset face glowed. “Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.”
One people, one empire, one leader. Evelyn wrote the slogan she’d heard innumerable times.
“Hitler has made Germany strong again. He is undoing the disgrace of Versailles.” The grandmother puckered her mouth.
Evelyn murmured. The Versailles Treaty at the end of the Great War had gutted the German military and imposed severe reparations. The Germans blamed the treaty for the poverty Peter Lang had observed six years earlier. The chaos.
She frowned and took notes. “And now . . . ?”
“Now we hold our heads high.” The granddaughter lifted her chin. “The world can see how great our Führer is and how good he is to us.”
The grandmother patted Evelyn’s arm. “You Americans should follow our example. All the gangsters! And the soup lines.” She clucked her tongue.
Evelyn’s jaw tightened. Yes, times were hard in America, but a dictatorship wasn’t the solution.
After she took the ladies’ names at their request, they went on their way.
Evelyn adjusted her leather gloves. Snow frosted the street in white, with shiny black tracks where cars had driven. She’d heard reports from farmers about the cold snap causing a loss of blossoms from fruit trees, and the government predicted a fruit shortage. So much for apple strudel and plum cake.
A woman left the polling place, her gaze darting about, and she gave the storm trooper guards at the door a wide berth.
A woman with a story. Evelyn met her about twenty feet from the door. “Guten Morgen. I’m Evelyn Brand with the American News Service. May I interview you?”
The woman startled. Thin lines cupped around her mouth, and gray streaked the brown braid coiled around her head like a halo. “An—an American reporter?”
“Yes.” Evelyn gave her a soothing smile. “May I interview you about the plebiscite?”
“Nein.” She stepped around Evelyn and hustled down the sidewalk.
Bother. It would have been nice to have had one dissenting voice, even a cautious voice. Evelyn wouldn’t have taken her name.
Over the next hour, she interviewed several dozen ladies. The vast majority spoke with enthusiasm about the Anschluss and their Führer. A smaller number spoke the same words but with stiff voices and furtive glances to the brown-uniformed SA storm troopers, even though Evelyn conducted her interviews well out of earshot.
The correspondents predicted a 99 percent “Ja” vote as in every other Nazi plebiscite. Every day the Germans lost a little more freedom, but they had jobs, and that was all that seemed to matter to them. But freedom mattered to Evelyn.
With plenty of interviews, Evelyn closed her notepad. She’d write her article and phone it to Berlin this afternoon. Norwood insisted on editing her work first. Only hers. Completely insulting. After all, the staff in New York edited all articles before publication.
Evelyn slipped her notepad into her purse.
“Excuse me, Fräulein. You dropped your handkerchief.” A lady held out a white hankie.
Evelyn hadn’t used hers. “No, I—”
The woman grabbed her hand and stuffed the fabric into her grip—the skittish woman with the halo braid. The handkerchief crinkled.
And Evelyn understood. “Oh, it is mine. Danke schön.”
“Bitte.” She slipped away.
Without looking, Evelyn stuffed the handkerchief and the enclosed note in her purse. She’d read it in the privacy of her apartment.
She turned the corner. The street was strangely empty, and she peered ahead.
Two blocks up, red and black standards bobbed. A parade.
Evelyn glanced around for a place to hide. A butcher shop, and she ducked inside. It didn’t matter who was parading—military or SA or Hitler Youth—everyone watching was required to raise the Nazi salute.
Sure, the German government had issued numerous decrees stating that foreigners weren’t required to salute, but Evelyn didn’t exactly wear the flag of the United States as a shawl. In the past five years, dozens of Americans had been beaten up for not saluting at parades. An official apology didn’t mend broken bones.
She browsed the butcher case. Might as well buy meat for dinner, but the pickings were slim. The government’s insistence on making the German economy self-sufficient had led to food shortages.
The sound of drums and trumpets and cheering built, and Evelyn feigned indecision, although she knew what she wanted. It was her night to cook, and she craved meatloaf.
When the din peaked, Evelyn asked for half a pound of Hackfleisch, the German equivalent of ground beef.
The butcher weighed out the meat and wrapped it in paper, and Evelyn slowly picked out coins for payment.
By the time she finished, the little parade had passed. After checking both directions, Evelyn hurried home.
Flute music wafted from inside the apartment—Johann Sebastian Bach’s Suite no. 2 in B minor. Evelyn flung open the door, tossed the meat on the table, plopped into a kitchen chair, and snatched the note from her purse.
The music stopped. “Well, hello to you too.”
“Hi, Libby.” Evelyn unfolded the paper—“Brot, Käse, Kraut.” A shopping list. She flipped it over. “A woman sneaked me a note at the polling place.”
“How exciting.” Libby came over, flute in hand, her hair bound in a braid down her back. “What does it say?”
Evelyn peered at it. Not only was German handwriting script difficult to decipher, but the woman had written small and had filled every space. Evelyn read aloud for Libby’s benefit.
I will not tell you my name, but I want you to tell our story, the true story no one dares voice.
You asked my opinion on the plebiscite. It is a sham. No Jews are allowed to vote, but everyone else is required to. If you don’t go to your polling place, they bring you by force.
The ballot asks, “Do you agree with the reunification of Austria with the German Reich, and do you vote for the policies of Adolf Hitler?” One vote on both questions. A large circle in the center of the ballot is marked “Ja.” To the side is a small circle marked “Nein.” To vote no is not only disagreeing with the Anschluss but opposing Hitler and his policies. To vote no is treason.
The voting is not secret. A long table stands in the open, and brownshirts watch over our shoulders as we mark our ballots. Those who vote no will be arrested. In case anyone sneaks past, the ballots are marked. When I checked in, they wrote a number beside my name on the elector list. I felt bumps on my ballot and inspected them surreptitiously. It was the same number, as if someone had typed it without a ribbon. If you vote no, they will track you down.
To vote no is to offer yourself to the Gestapo for arrest, torture, and a trip to Dachau.
I voted yes, but I hate Hitler and his regime. I work as a secretary at a government ministry, and I hear many things. If you are interested in hearing them too, meet me tonight at 10 p.m. in the Maximiliansanlage by the Angel of Peace monument.
“You have a new informant.” Libby squeezed Evelyn’s shoulder.
“I think so. You have to be careful with informants, especially the eager ones. They’re often sent by the Gestapo. But I think this woman is genuine.” After Evelyn wrote her article, she’d feed the note to the fire.
“Are you going to meet her tonight? It’ll be cold.”
“Of course, but first I have an article to write.” At her desk, Evelyn shoved aside papers and hefted up her typewriter case. She’d last used it on Thursday at Herr Gold’s café.
Peter Lang had visited the café again, which was bothersome. Yet she was glad to see him in good spirits after how she’d treated him on Tuesday.
She could still see the shock and pain on Peter’s face when she’d mentioned his father. Just because she had access to information didn’t give her the right to invade his privacy. His grief.
How horrendous for him to have watched his own father’s murder. Now she understood why he felt the way he did—although she’d never agree with him.
Evelyn opened her typewriter case. A piece of paper remained in the roller—she never did that. She twisted the knob to roll it up a few lines.
“Dinner tonight?” was typed, and Evelyn laughed.
The flute music stopped again. “What’s so funny?”
“This.” Evelyn took the paper to Libby at her music stand. “Peter must have typed it when I went to the kitchen to say good-bye to Herr Gold. You know me—I pack so quickly, I didn’t even see it.”
“That’s sweet. You should give him another chance.”
“Absolutely not.” Evelyn returned to her typewriter and rolled the paper back in. “He has a certain charm about him, but we don’t agree on the important things. Besides, I don’t need a man to lean on.”
“I know. You can handle anything.”
“I can.” She typed “No, thank you.” If Peter returned to the café, she’d give it to him. It was rather rude of her not to have replied.
“You and the Lord together can handle anything.” Libby’s tone implied that her statement was a wish for Evelyn, not the truth.
Her fingers settled onto the keys, each finger pad nestled in round black lacquer.
“‘The Lord is my strength and song,’” Libby quoted, “‘and is become my salvation.’”
“Yes.” Evelyn loved God. He was indeed her song and her salvation. She rejoiced in how he’d freed her from sin.
But she didn’t need him for strength as Libby did. Still, she was glad the Lord was there to help in a pinch.
Libby’s metronome ticked away, and notes from Bach’s suite tumbled out.
Evelyn added her own music in time to the metronome, the music of her typewriter keys, the music of her words, of truth.