MONDAY, MAY 2, 1938
“Ich gehe in die Oper,” Peter wrote on the blackboard. “I am going to the opera. Past imperfect—Fräulein Blackstone?”
“Ich ging in die Oper.”
“Very good.” Peter wrote the past tense underneath. “Past perfect—Herr Schultz?”
“Ich bin in die Oper gegangen.”
“Yes, indeed. Past pluperfect—Fräulein Wechsler?”
“Ich war in die Oper gegangen.”
“Very good.” After Peter finished, he wrote the homework assignment on the board.
Now in their second semester at the University of Munich, these junior year students were close to fluent. In the past month Peter had been teaching them, he’d noticed improvement in grammar and vocabulary, but mostly in diction.
Energy coursed in his veins. The students were engaged and responding. He had an influence on their lives. Was this how his brother Richard felt when crafting legislation? How his brother Karl felt when running the business?
But Rich influenced tens of thousands in the House of Representatives. Karl influenced thousands. Soon their youngest brother, Albert, would influence many as a lawyer, a judge.
Peter influenced thirty-four students. A wall slammed down and stopped that energy in its course.
He set down the chalk. “Class is over. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
The students made their way out of the classroom, speaking a mishmash of English and German.
Fräulein Wechsler approached the desk, holding her textbook on her hip. “Am Samstag werde ich in die Oper gehen.”
“Very good.” Peter set his papers inside his attaché case and grinned. “But I gave you past pluperfect.”
A flush raced across her cheeks. “I really am going to the opera on Saturday, with Tom and Irene.” She gestured to the couple behind her.
“The Magic Flute?”
“Yes.” She inclined her head, and a light brown curl slid over to meet her smile. “Would you like to come with us?”
Peter pressed shut the latches on his attaché case. As he’d suspected, Fräulein Wechsler had a crush on him. The instructors often took groups of students to cultural events as part of their education, but Peter had a policy not to date students.
He smiled at the girl. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I must decline. However, I look forward to attending the music festival in Düsseldorf with your class.”
A quick hike to her eyebrows, and she gave him a thin smile and turned to her friends. A girl that pretty probably wasn’t used to men not falling at her feet.
After the students left, Peter wiped down the blackboard. He’d wanted to attend The Magic Flute with Evelyn. He’d purchased two tickets hoping she wouldn’t turn him down with tickets in hand. But she had.
He chuckled. She seemed to enjoy the game, and so did he. Twice a week he joined her at the café. Twice a week he asked her out. Twice a week she turned him down. She never seemed bothered that he asked—and if she did, he’d stop asking.
Peter inspected the board for stray marks. He and Evelyn worked well together at their adjacent tables, occasionally pausing to share stories, to banter, or to chat with Herr Gold.
Evelyn seemed to enjoy his company, and—this intrigued him—she still came to the café on his now-regular days.
Maybe someday.
After the room was ready for the next class, Peter put on his coat and hat, picked up his attaché case, and headed into the hallway.
A man marched toward him wearing a Hitler Youth leader’s uniform—a brown jacket, black trousers, and tall black boots. He saluted. “Heil, Hitler! Are you Herr Peter Lang?”
“I am. As an American, I offer you a simple ‘Guten Tag’ and a handshake.”
The man, about Peter’s age, accepted the handshake. “I am Bannführer Wolfgang Diefenbach. I came to ask about Hans-Jürgen Schreiber’s English.”
Peter gestured down the hall. “I have an appointment, but will you walk with me?”
A nod of his square jaw, and he fell in beside Peter. “This Sunday I heard the boy speak English to his friends—with an American accent. I visited New York, so I recognize it. He said you were teaching him.”
“I am. Diction is my field of expertise. I help American students improve their German.”
“And you help Germans improve their English. That is good. I would like you to teach my other boys. It is a useful skill.”
Useful? Although Peter loved teaching, something about the request didn’t sit right. “I am honored. But with the demands of my research and teaching, I can’t take on additional responsibilities.”
“We can pay you handsomely.”
“Ah, but I’m short on time, not money.” Peter stopped at Professor Schreiber’s open office door and extended his hand. “Thank you again, Herr Bannführer. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Diefenbach slipped a card into Peter’s hand. “My phone number. Please think about it. This would be a great service to the Vaterland.”
Peter’s fatherland was the United States, not Germany, and his stomach squirmed. Diefenbach was only asking him to help boys with English—something he would enjoy. Why did it feel as if he’d been asked to do something wrong?
Diefenbach faced into the office. “Heil, Hitler!”
Professor Schreiber sprang to his feet, papers fluttering to the floor, and he returned the salute and heil. “What brings you here, Herr Bannführer?”
Peter came inside with a smile. “He is impressed with Hans-Jürgen’s English and wants me to teach the other boys. But I am too busy.” At least Diefenbach’s offer validated his work.
Diefenbach remained in the doorway, stiff as a tin soldier. “Hans-Jürgen was not at the meeting last Wednesday.”
The professor picked up the papers from the floor and set them on his desk. “It was his grandmother’s birthday.”
“You have many birthdays and anniversaries.”
“We are a large and close family.”
Diefenbach frowned. “His family is the Hitler Youth. You selfishly held him back and did not allow him to join until last year. He is behind the other boys and must catch up. It is your duty to the Reich.”
Professor Schreiber stood still, his hand on the desk. “He will come when able.”
“See that he is able every Sunday and every Wednesday night, Herr Schreiber.” Another heil and salute, and he left.
Peter frowned at the empty doorway. Surely the Bannführer knew to address him as Professor Schreiber or Herr Professor.
The professor sat in his desk chair, his face pale.
Peter opened his mouth to ask more, but Dr. Schreiber’s gaze shifted to Peter and brightened. “How was your class?”
“Very good.” He took his seat across from his mentor. “They learn quickly.”
“Good.” He opened a desk drawer and handed an envelope to Peter.
The return address was from Harvard University. “What’s this?”
“You went to Harvard, as did your father and brothers, ja? Your family has influence there.”
“Yes.” They were all generous with donations and active in the alumni group.
“This is an application for Hans-Jürgen. Would you write a letter of recommendation?”
“Yes, but . . . I know you want him to study abroad, but I thought you meant for graduate school. It’s so far away.”
“Yes. Very far.” He gazed to a baby picture on the desk, and his forehead furrowed.
This from a man who kept his son home from youth meetings, a man with a close family. And Hans-Jürgen was his only child.
“If you can help him get accepted, it would mean the world to my wife and me.” His tone was light, but then he raised his gaze—tinged with urgency and a flicker of fear.
Peter swallowed hard. “I’ll do my best, Herr Professor.”