WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20, 1938
The pageantry thrilled Peter’s heart, and the eloquence of the human form in motion pleased his eyes. The most spectacular movie he’d ever seen. He’d bought tickets to the premiere of Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia for Evelyn’s sake, but he was glad he’d come.
“Let’s go,” Evelyn whispered in the darkness beside him.
“Now?” The movie was coming to a sweeping finale.
“Before the national anthem. Come on.”
She had a point. Staying bent over, Peter ducked into the aisle and followed Evelyn. As Americans, they weren’t required to sing “Deutschland über Alles” or the “Horst Wessel Song,” but he didn’t want to offend anyone by refraining.
In the lobby Evelyn started putting on her coat, and Peter helped her.
“That was the longest movie I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“It was.” Peter slipped on his own overcoat. Even with an intermission, three and a half hours gave the film a marathon-like feel appropriate for a movie about the 1936 Berlin Olympics. “I’m starved. Shall we get dinner? The Hofbräuhaus isn’t far.”
Evelyn’s chin jutted out. “I only accepted your invitation to the movie, not dinner.”
“And you only accepted so you could write an article about the movie. However”—he tapped his wristwatch—“it’s late. Do you want to cook dinner? I don’t. I’d rather have sausage and potato salad.”
She hesitated, then pressed a hand to her stomach. “I do like potato salad.”
“Great.” The triumphant strains of “Deutschland über Alles” poured from the theater. “If we hurry, we’ll beat the crowd.”
Outside, snowflakes dusted the night air. Talk of the unseasonal cold hovered on his tongue, but he wanted something deeper.
“You were very kind to get me the ticket.” Evelyn plunged her hands into her coat pockets. “ANS assigned me to cover the premiere, but when I couldn’t get tickets—well, you already heard me gripe about this.”
He chuckled. “Thank goodness you griped, or I wouldn’t have known. And thank goodness I went to the Students’ League meeting when they sold tickets.”
“The German Students’ League? You went to a meeting?” Evelyn’s eyes grew enormous.
“I’m not a member, if that’s what you were thinking. And you were.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “Do you blame me?”
He smiled back and led her across the street, his shoes crunching in the snow. “My friend Otto invited me. They want to learn about America. That’s part of the purpose of studying abroad.”
Snowflakes glittered on her dark gray hat. “What I wouldn’t give to attend. What a story. But I don’t suppose women are allowed.”
Peter grimaced. “Come to think of it, only men attend. But they mostly talk about classes.”
They reached the Hofbräuhaus, a Munich landmark. Traditional Bavarian music greeted them, the tuba and accordion leading the other instruments in frolicking tunes. Peter and Evelyn were led through the maze of rooms, under elaborate signs for the Stammtische, the tables reserved for regulars. Waiters in lederhosen and waitresses in dirndls carried platters of beer and savory food.
Their table stood by a tall arched window. After Peter hung their coats on hooks, they both ordered bratwurst, sauerkraut, potato salad, and coffee. It gave him hope that they could find other things to agree on. Although bantering with her was fun too.
Peter scooted his chair in. “The movie was incredible.”
“It was.” Evelyn adjusted the sleeves of her burgundy dress. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I looked for my friend Henning. He rowed for the Danish team, but he must not have been photogenic enough.”
“Henning?” She narrowed one eye. “One of your Hah-vahd friends?”
“Right.” He grinned at her Midwestern disdain for the Ivy League. “Did you get enough material for your article?”
“Yes, and I figured out my angle.”
“Angle?”
Evelyn rested her forearms on the table and leaned closer, lowering her voice. “As a guest, I have to be careful not to insult my hosts, or I’ll be escorted out of the house. Gemütlichkeit has limits.”
One day at the café, she’d mentioned the risk of getting expelled. “How would . . . our hosts know what you’ve written?”
“The embassy in DC reads our newspapers.” Evelyn shot a furtive glance at a long table, where a group of older men raised beer steins and sang “Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen.”
With the boisterous music and conversation in the room, Evelyn had no need to worry about anyone listening, but Peter leaned in, more than willing to play her game of low voices and code words. Anything to study her face at close range. “All right, but when your hostess serves a tasty dessert of a movie, how can any guest find fault?”
“No faults to report.” Thick dark lashes swept over her brown eyes. “I can honestly praise the beauty of the production, the innovative camera angles, the splendor, all that.”
“It was gorgeous.” So was Evelyn, in her own unique way.
“But it was also about subverting the individual to the will of the community. About conformity and uniformity.”
Peter tilted his head. Perhaps some saw it that way. He hadn’t.
“That’s my angle.” She patted the table. “Phrases like uniformity and the loss of individuality will please our hosts. They cherish those values. But the phrases will have the opposite effect at home. What do Americans fear most? Loss of freedom. Loss of individuality. After all, what’s our founding document? The Declaration of Independence.”
Peter tipped his glasses higher and smiled. “‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.’ We’re more than individuals. We’re a group.”
“A union of individuals.”
“Yes, but a union of individuals, bound in community. Besides, community is a Christian concept. The body of believers.”
“True.” Evelyn rested her chin on her palm with a spark in her eyes. “Yet our hosts destroy church communities—Catholic and Protestant alike. They’ve arrested hundreds of priests and pastors—especially in the Confessing Church. Men who preach the Bible instead of Party doctrine—like Martin Niemöller.” She whispered the name.
Peter frowned at the red-and-white print tablecloth. He’d heard about Niemöller. And Otto had told him the official German church rejected the Old Testament and the Apostle Paul’s writings as too Jewish. They even preached an Aryan Jesus. That all bothered Peter . . . deeply.
“Our hosts put the Party above the Lord, a political leader above the Lord.” Evelyn’s voice barely crossed the divide between them. “And look how they treat God’s chosen people.”
He raised a heavy head and met her gaze. “I don’t agree with that. Not at all. No one should be treated unfairly due to his race.”
Evelyn’s face sobered. “We’ve found something we agree on.”
“Yes.” He drew in a deep breath. “But I wouldn’t worry. It’s a passing phase.”
She blinked rapidly. “A passing phase?”
“Germany has had difficult times, and in difficult times people seek scapegoats. It’s wrong, but it happens. It happens in America too.”
Her brows bunched together. “That’s true.”
“Now that prosperity has returned to this land, they’ll stop seeking scapegoats and the pressure will ease.”
“I hope you’re right. But our hosts have given up so much freedom in exchange for that prosperity. Where do you draw the line?”
Peter clenched his hands together on the table. Where did he draw the line?
Evelyn grabbed her purse and dug around inside. “How did Roosevelt word it?”
“Roosevelt?”
“He gave a Fireside Chat last week to reassure people about the latest economic setback. You wouldn’t have read it—the German papers are censored—but the bureau gets reports straight from New York.” She pulled out a notebook.
Peter smiled. “I read an article about that speech in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten.”
“Only the parts approved by Joseph Goebbels’s Ministry of Propaganda.” She flipped a page. “Here we go. The president said, ‘Democracy has disappeared in several other great nations—disappeared not because the people of those nations disliked democracy, but because they had grown tired of unemployment and insecurity, of seeing their children hungry while they sat helpless in the face of government confusion, government weakness—weakness through lack of leadership in government. Finally, in desperation, they chose to sacrifice liberty in the hope of getting something to eat.’”
The waitress came over with plates heaping with food, and the steam wafted tantalizing scents into Peter’s nose.
After the waitress left, Evelyn pulled the pot of Bavarian sweet mustard close and slathered some on her bratwurst. “What do you think of that quote, Mr. Lang?”
“I think you should be careful, Miss Brand.” He aimed a mock stern look at her. “Careful not to put a political leader above the Lord.”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing, right in time with the accordion.
Peter grinned and scooped a forkful of potato salad into his mouth, pungent with vinegar. Herr Gold was right. She was worth the winning.