MUNICH
MONDAY, MAY 9, 1938
Several high-ranking German officials were on their way to Munich. Wouldn’t Evelyn love to know?
Peter leaned back in his chair at the German Students’ League meeting and grinned at the imagined look on her face. Surely he could inform her so she could “happen” to be at the right place at the right time.
But Otto von Albrecht, the leader of the league and highly involved in the local Nazi Party, said the information was secret. The students were only told so they could make preparations. Peter didn’t want to violate the trust Otto had placed in him by welcoming him into their midst.
Peter would have to find another way into Evelyn’s good graces.
Otto adjourned the meeting, and the young men in brown uniforms stood and chatted.
Several undergrads gathered around Peter.
“Thank you for telling us about American universities.” A tall young man with a thatch of brown hair stood too close. “I am glad so many are for men only.”
Peter smiled and eased back. “Many are coed.”
“You should do what we Germans did.” Another young man lifted his pointed chin. “Only 10 percent of admissions go to women, and they must do a year of domestic service before starting their studies.”
The first student nodded briskly. “That would cut your unemployment and remind your women they belong in the kitchen.”
Peter smothered a laugh. His own mother hired kitchen help because she was a lousy cook. And what if someone had kept Evelyn Brand from college? That would have been a crying shame. “Our women are free to make their own choices about such things.”
A third student frowned, making his deep-set eyes almost disappear. “That is the problem with your country—you place individual freedom above the good of the community.”
In a way, he was right, and Peter sighed. Too much freedom had flung the nation into decadence, then into violence that struck down innocent men protecting private property.
Otto approached and clapped Peter on the shoulder. “Excellent talk. You are a great speaker, a natural leader.”
The other boys murmured their agreement.
Otto crossed sturdy arms. “With your abilities and connections, you could have great influence.”
That energizing thrill resumed its course. “Thank you.”
“You are in the right place.” Otto raised a winning smile. “Here you see how we have established order, how we build roads and businesses and museums—how we flourish. You can teach your people to do likewise.”
That was Peter’s firmest hope.
TUESDAY, MAY 10, 1938
The bells of the glockenspiel tinkled their tune from the balcony of the town hall as wooden figures jousted and rolled out beer barrels. Peter would never tire of the show at the Neues Rathaus or the wonder on the faces of those who filled the Marienplatz. Like the little towheaded boy tugging on his hurried mother’s hand and tripping over his feet trying to watch.
The wooden rooster crowed three times, and the crowd went on its way.
So did Peter. He always timed his walk to the Gärtnerplatz so he passed through the Marienplatz when the glockenspiel played.
He craned his neck to take in the three-hundred-foot tower of St. Peterskirche, or Alter Peter, as the locals dubbed it—“Old Peter.” His mother had Munich’s oldest church in mind when naming her third-born son.
Before arriving at the café, he had a decision to make. On what sort of date would he invite Evelyn and how would he ask her? And how would she turn him down?
Wind curled around the ancient stone of the church, and Peter worked his hat lower on his brow. Although he enjoyed their game, he still hoped to entice her on an outing.
He bypassed the bustling Viktualienmarkt. He’d buy fresh produce on the way home, but not now.
The date would have to be in the evening, because he had to run errands on Saturday. The heels of his brown oxfords needed to be replaced, and a few suits needed dry cleaning. He could use a haircut too.
Then he laughed. Why not ask her to accompany him on his errands? He’d never asked her to join him in the mundane. It wouldn’t work, but it’d make her laugh, and she had a beautiful laugh, low and rich.
Peter turned onto a side street. A blur of motion and noise ahead, and he halted.
Half a dozen policemen yanked and shoved someone toward a black car, pounding him with fists. An arrest.
Something stiffened in Peter’s chest. Good. That’s how they kept Munich’s streets peaceful, by putting away rabble-rousers.
A few of the officers backed away as they reached the car, clearing Peter’s view.
His breath froze. The prisoner had to be in his eighties, with tousled white hair and stooped shoulders. A rivulet of blood ran down his temple.
“What did he do?” Peter’s words tumbled out.
“Hmph.” A heavyset woman in an apron leaned against the doorjamb of a grocery store. “He called Hitler a swine, right here in my store. He has been my customer for years, but I won’t stand for such talk about our Führer.” She marched into the store, head high.
The black car pulled from the curb.
Peter’s vision fogged over. His feet couldn’t move.
An elderly man. His crime wasn’t rioting or murder but speaking his mind.
Blinking over and over failed to clear his eyesight. Peter had justified an arrest, a beating, without knowing the facts. What was wrong with him? When had he become so callous?
He pried his feet from the sidewalk and forced himself onward. How could the police treat an elderly man like that? How could they treat any human being like that?
His breath came hard. How many times had Peter criticized President Franklin Roosevelt—or Herbert Hoover before him? What if that were a crime?
His black oxfords pounded the pavement. He wanted order on the streets, but did order require arresting people for criticizing the government?
Yes, free speech had its problems. Free speech could work people into a frenzy, leading to violence. Lives and property needed to be protected.
But where did you draw the line?
Everything in his head was a gray putrid mess. All he knew was the German government had drawn the line in the wrong place.
He stopped on a corner. Where was he? He turned in a circle. The brilliant greens and reds and pinks of the Gärtnerplatz seemed garish today, like a vaudeville suit at a funeral.
The café lay behind him. Maybe he should go home. He was in no mood for repartee.
However, he backtracked and entered the café, empty except for Evelyn.
She sat at her usual table with a teasing smile. “You decided to come in after all. You marched past as if you were late to an important meeting.”
Peter sat at his table and set down his hat and attaché case. “Just preoccupied.”
“Deep scholarly thoughts, I’m sure.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. “I’m glad you didn’t storm past because you’re angry with me.”
“Angry?” He snapped open the clasps of his case and pulled out a folder of essays to grade. “Why would I be angry with you?”
“You have every right.” She swept a finger along the space bar on her typewriter, and the corner of her mouth puckered. “After I turned down your invitation to The Magic Flute, Libby brought home tickets for the same performance. I attended with her. That was rude of me.”
“Hardly. I’m glad you went.” He pulled out his red pencil.
“I didn’t see you there.”
“I gave my tickets to the Schreibers.” He couldn’t be witty, couldn’t even grade the essays. “What are you working on?”
“An article about small businesses and some new laws. Would you . . . would you like to see? I only have one more paragraph to write.”
“I’d like that.” She’d never offered before.
Evelyn pulled out the paper and gathered two more sheets. But then she held back the bundle and gave Peter a penetrating look. “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He held out his hand for the article.
“Preoccupied?”
“Yes.” He set down the papers, wiped dust from his glasses with his handkerchief, and began reading.
The café has stood in the neighborhood for decades, bright and cheery and fragrant. “I expect an increase in business thanks to the new laws,” the proprietor told this reporter. “The government is clamping down on unfair competition.”
His wife agreed as she rolled out a batch of spaetzle noodles. “No more will Germany allow swindlers and dirty business practices.”
A few blocks over, another café has also stood in the neighborhood for decades, bright and cheery and fragrant. “My father built this café,” the proprietor told this reporter. “But soon I shall lose my livelihood and his legacy.”
What is the difference between the two cafés? The first is owned by a man with “pure Aryan blood,” and the second by a man of Jewish blood.
In 1933, over 100,000 companies in Germany were owned by Jews. Due to governmental and economic pressure, almost 70 percent of these have been closed or sold to Aryans.
On April 22, Germany passed the Decree Against the Camouflage of Jewish Firms, which made it a crime to conceal the ownership of a Jewish-owned business or to change the name. The intent was to label Jewish-owned companies so Aryans would take their money elsewhere.
On April 26, Germany required Jewish business owners to receive authorization to sell a company, giving the government control over the “Aryanization” process.
Also on April 26, the Order for the Disclosure of Jewish Assets was issued. Under this law, Jewish people must register assets over 5000 Reichsmarks, approximately $2000, less than the price of an average business.
For the Jewish business owners who remain, revenue will decrease and the pressure to sell will increase, but the new regulations mean they will receive below market price.
More stories and examples filled the remaining pages. At the end, Peter took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The German economy was strong, and the people were secure. Why a new law against the Jews? Several new laws?
“What do you think?” Evelyn asked. “Is it too long?”
“No. It’s good. The article—it’s excellent.”
“Is it biased? Incendiary? I asked you to read it because you approve of German policy.”
Peter winced. “Not this. I don’t approve of this. Of that.” He waved in the direction of the street where an elderly man had been beaten and arrested for voicing an opinion.
Evelyn was quiet for a long time. “You know Norwood. What do you think he’ll say?”
Peter handed it back to her. “He’d be a fool to alter it. It’s balanced and factual, but deeply personal. You’re a gifted writer.”
“Guten Morgen, Herr Lang.” Herr Gold approached the table, wiping his hands on his apron. “I didn’t hear you arrive. Please forgive me. What would you like?”
“Only coffee. I’m not hungry.”
“One minute.” Herr Gold’s smile was more subdued than usual, his step less sprightly as he returned to the kitchen.
Oh no. Realization slammed into him. “He’s the second café owner, isn’t he?”
Evelyn nodded, her brown eyes solemn.
Herr Gold was Jewish. He entered the dining room and set a cup and saucer on the table. “Coffee for you, my friend.”
Peter stood and clasped the man’s hand. “I am sorry. Fräulein Brand just told me about the troubles you’re facing with your café.”
“You are very kind.” He patted the table. “Please. Please sit and drink.”
“Herr Gold?” Evelyn said softly. “Please tell Herr Lang how things are for you.”
“Ach.” He waved her off. “He does not want to hear.”
“I do.” Peter motioned to the opposite chair. “Please sit with me. Please tell me.”
Herr Gold paused, then lowered himself to the chair. “It is strange not to belong in your own home.”
Peter rested his forearms on the table, thirstier for the man’s words than for coffee.
“My family has lived in Munich for three hundred years.” Herr Gold gazed out his window. “But I am no longer a citizen of Germany. Of—of any nation.”
“The Nuremberg Laws of 1935,” Evelyn said.
Peter knew about them. They were meant to bring peace between the Aryans and the Jews by building a wall between them, separating the races. But the wall kept shifting.
“I fought in the Great War, and at a higher rank than the Führer, but we Jews are no longer allowed to serve in the military. We aren’t allowed to work in civil service, as teachers or judges.”
Peter chewed his lips and lowered his head. Professor Schreiber said two of Peter’s favorite professors from his junior year had been fired because of their race. He’d been shocked, but now the magnitude of the situation sank in.
“My café has been boycotted, vile slogans painted on my walls. Every table used to be full, every Krapfen sold by nine.” Herr Gold frowned at the empty tables. “My brother-in-law is Aryan. He will buy the café, but the state controls the price. My brother-in-law will change the name of the café, and customers will return. I will work here as an employee, but . . .”
“But it isn’t the same,” Peter said, his voice rough. “It isn’t right.”
“There is no right or wrong.” Herr Gold spoke softly and with a faint smile. “There is only the will of the Führer.”
Peter’s head ached. This was all supposed to blow over. But it hadn’t. It was blowing harder than ever. When would it stop? Or would it? “I’m sorry, my friend. This shouldn’t be happening to you. To anyone. It’s wrong.”
Herr Gold swept his arm to Peter and his smile to Evelyn. “Our Herr Lang is a good man. Next time he asks you to dinner, you accept, ja?”
On an ordinary day, Peter would have jumped on that, but not today.
Evelyn raised that sly smile of hers. “You forget. If Herr Lang and I were both German, a romantic relationship would be forbidden under the Nuremberg Laws.”
Peter frowned. A cross glimmered around her slender neck, and she always talked as if . . . “I thought you were a Christian.”
“I am. But three of my grandparents are converted Jews. German law is about race, not religion, so I would be considered Jewish. You wouldn’t dare ask me out.” Her mouth smiled, but something in her eyes challenged him.
“But my dear Fräulein.” Herr Gold pressed both hands over his heart. “You are both Americans. These laws do not apply to you, so be thankful.”
“I—I am.”
“All the more reason to have dinner with good Herr Lang—because you can.”
Evelyn’s face darkened, and she inserted paper into the typewriter. “It isn’t that simple.”
Peter’s stomach fell. No, it wasn’t. Why would she want to date a man who’d praised a regime that would strip away her rights, the rights of her friends?
Herr Gold stood, set his hands on either side of Evelyn’s typewriter, and leaned close, right in her startled face. “Do not tell anyone. You are too free with your words. Who else knows?”
Evelyn’s eyelids fluttered. “My—my roommate. A couple of fellows at the bureau.”
“No one else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mein Herr.”
Herr Gold skewered Peter with his gaze. “And you—tell no one.”
Peter found his breath. “I won’t. Not a soul.”
The café owner returned to the kitchen, and Evelyn watched Peter warily. The poor woman probably realized she’d shared a dangerous secret with a man she didn’t even care to share a meal with.
Peter filled his gaze with the truth that he’d protect her and never let any harm come to her, as much as it depended on him. “No one will ever know.”
Evelyn’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” She returned to her work.
If only Peter could return to his.
Everything felt inside out. He’d thought of the new Germany as a fine cheese—once you cut away the ugly rind, you could savor the richness inside.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all.
He felt as if he’d been given a beautiful pastry, only to bite in and find the filling rotten.