MUNICH
SATURDAY, JULY 23, 1938
Although dozens of people roamed the Forstner mansion, Peter picked out Evelyn across the room by the grand piano. Even if she hadn’t worn red, he would have noticed her, but she had worn red, deep and rich as a fine wine.
“Many thanks for coming to my soiree,” Katarina von Forstner said to him. “Fräulein Brand insisted we invite you. She said you’d be a lively addition to our guest list.”
Peter pried his gaze from Evelyn and bowed his head to his hostess, an elegant widow in her sixties. “I can only hope to live up to such expectations. I am honored to be welcomed into your home.”
“Ach, here is our Fräulein Brand.”
Evelyn glided over, her slim hips swaying. Her dress hugged her figure down to her ankles, and a filmy collar traced the V-shaped neckline and fluttered on her bare shoulders. Her lips rose in a brilliant smile.
Lord, help me. Peter straightened his tuxedo jacket. He took her hand, outstretched for a handshake, and he bowed to kiss it in the Bavarian fashion, letting himself linger. “Good evening, Fräulein Brand. You look stunning.”
“Good evening, Herr Lang. Doesn’t he have lovely manners, Frau von Forstner?”
Their hostess smiled, fine lines radiating around her blue eyes. “He’s perfectly charming.”
“I shall introduce him around so others may enjoy his charm.” Evelyn plucked her hand from Peter’s, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and led him away.
“Be careful,” Peter said, “or my head will swell with pride.”
“Not to worry. I’ll throw an insult or two your way.”
“Better make it three. You slathered it on thicker than jam.”
Evelyn laughed. On one side, her hair fell in waves to her chin, and on the other it was held up by a ruby-studded comb. “You’ll like it here. Frau von Forstner throws soirees with the most interesting people. This is one place in Germany where people are free to speak their minds.”
She led him through a salon decorated in the ornate baroque fashion popular with Germany’s upper class. Chairs and settees and low tables formed intimate areas for conversation, and a gentleman played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the piano.
Peter patted the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “I brought that poem for you.”
“Thank you. I’ll get it before I leave.” Evelyn had insisted they find different ways to pass reports on the Nazi meetings.
If it allowed Peter to see her in social settings, so be it.
Evelyn drew up to three people standing in conversation. “Fräulein White, you remember Herr Lang. Everyone, this is Herr Peter Lang. He’s studying for his doctorate in German at Harvard and is teaching at the University of Munich.”
Peter smiled at the group and greeted Libby, who looked lovely in a long pale pink gown.
Evelyn nodded toward a gorgeous, full-figured blonde. “Fräulein Anneliese Vogelsang sings in operettas, and Herr Wilhelm Heinecke is a gifted novelist.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein.” Peter kissed her hand. He had a hunch Vogelsang was a stage name, since it meant birdsong. Then he shook Heinecke’s hand.
“Please excuse me.” Evelyn departed.
Peter’s arm felt naked and lonely, but he knew how to mingle. “Fräulein Vogelsang, are you currently in a production?”
“I am.” She raised a smile that had probably claimed hundreds of men’s souls. “I play Rosalinde in Die Fledermaus at the Bavarian State Theater.”
On Gärtnerplatz. Peter’s favorite Platz.
“There you are, Liebchen.” Bannführer Wolfgang Diefenbach pressed a kiss to Fräulein Vogelsang’s cheek, then extended a hand to Peter. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting.”
Yes, they had, not only in regards to Hans-Jürgen Schreiber but at numerous Party meetings. However, Peter shook Diefenbach’s hand as if they’d just met. “Peter Lang.”
“Wolfgang Diefenbach.” He wore a tuxedo rather than a uniform, unusual for a Nazi.
Frau von Forstner came over, whispered to Libby, and the two ladies excused themselves.
Heinecke turned sleepy-lidded eyes to the operetta singer. “You must find music stifling lately.”
Peter tensed. Heinecke didn’t know a fervent Nazi stood beside him. Complaining about restrictions on the arts could land him in prison.
She leaned against Diefenbach’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Heinecke’s mouth screwed up, about to spew words that would probably condemn him.
“If you’ll excuse me, Fräulein, I’m not familiar with Herr Heinecke’s work.” Peter turned to the author. “Please tell me about your latest novel.”
His expression relaxed, then grew to satisfaction, and he described the plot of his book, which sounded dreary and ponderous. However, since it had been accepted for publication under Nazi rule, the topic was safe.
A woman in ice blue approached and tugged on Heinecke’s arm. “Are you boring everyone with your stories, Willi? Come with me. I want you to meet Herr Janvier from Paris.”
Diefenbach patted Fräulein Vogelsang’s waist. “Liebchen, please fetch me some wine.”
“Naturally.” She gave him a flirtatious look and sashayed away.
Diefenbach stepped closer, his eyes level with Peter’s. “It is good to see you here, good to see someone of like mind.”
“It is.” Peter felt off balance and adjusted his stance. It was vital that Diefenbach believe he was a Nazi sympathizer, and just as vital to protect the guests from the danger.
Diefenbach surveyed the room. “Anneliese told me about the inappropriate conversations that occur here. I came to see for myself.”
With his civilian attire, no one would suspect he would report to the Gestapo. But if Peter kept him occupied, Diefenbach couldn’t spy on the others. “Did Hans-Jürgen Schreiber tell you he was admitted to Harvard University?”
“Yes.” Lettuce-colored eyes hardened. “I will not grant him permission to go.”
Peter’s chest constricted. “Why not?”
He snorted. “He is not a good Nazi. The students we send abroad must be dedicated to spreading our ideology.”
Professor Schreiber hadn’t said so, but clearly the boy was being sent abroad to escape that ideology. Peter scrambled for a solution. “The Schreibers are quiet. The boy’s beliefs run deeper than you realize.”
Diefenbach shrugged massive shoulders. “The Labor Service will be good for him.”
“He has a brilliant mind, and he is growing stronger of body, ja? If he convinces you his ideology is correct, you would be wise to let him go. Harvard could use a young man like him.”
“Very well.” But his tone said he wouldn’t be easily convinced.
Tomorrow, Peter would visit the Schreibers and urge Hans-Jürgen to spout every bit of Nazi ideology, no matter how vile. Or else he’d never leave.
A twinge of guilt. It wasn’t fair that Aryan Hans-Jürgen Schreiber might be able to travel to America while Herr Gold couldn’t, but student visas fell outside the quota of immigration visas. The boy wouldn’t take one of those valuable slots.
“May I have your attention?” Frau von Forstner stood by the piano with Libby. “It is my pleasure to announce that acclaimed flautist Fräulein Elizabeth White will play for us.”
Libby inclined her head modestly as applause filled the salon. “Thank you for the kind welcome. I’d like to play selections from an American composition. It was composed for piano and orchestra, but I will play it on my little flute. Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin.”
“How dare she?” Diefenbach said through gritted teeth. “It’s banned.”
“Because it’s jazz?” Peter whispered.
“Worse. Gershwin was Jewish.”
Peter grunted as if disgusted with Libby rather than with Diefenbach. “She’s American. She might not know.”
“Your land is so infested with Jews and Negroes you don’t even see the infestation.”
“That is why I am here. To learn your ways and bring them to America.” Peter’s stomach squirmed, but he had to play his role. He had to help Evelyn spread the word so the Nazi infestation would not come to America.
Fräulein Vogelsang returned with two glasses of wine.
“Come, Liebchen. The air is bad here.” Diefenbach sniffed in Libby’s direction and drew his girlfriend to the far end of the room.
Peter had to sound the alarm without letting Diefenbach know he’d sounded it.
Where was Evelyn? Peter weaved among the chairs and guests.
Libby’s music wafted through the salon, so masterfully played it sounded as if composed for flute. And Gershwin’s syncopation broke the rules—in the right way.
Evelyn sat on a settee in the back of the room, and all he wanted was to draw her close.
Yes. That would work. She’d hate it, but it would work.
Peter sat beside her and draped his arm on the back of the settee. “You look beautiful.”
She raised one corner of her mouth. “You already said that.”
“I said you looked stunning.” He settled his arm around her shoulders and leaned close to her ear. “Don’t move. I have something urgent to say.”
“Pardon?” Her muscles stiffened beneath his touch.
“Urgent and private. Your friends’ lives may be at stake. Understand?”
A pause, then she nodded slowly, her hair brushing Peter’s nose.
“I’ll pretend to flirt, and you’ll pretend to welcome my advances,” he murmured into her ear, bared by the ruby comb. “When I’m done, you can tell me off.”
“I’m looking forward to that.” But her relaxing shoulders and a lilt in her voice said she was playing along.
“Miss Vogelsang has bad taste in dates. Bannführer Wolfgang Diefenbach is—”
“Bannführer?”
“Shh.” He shook his head, his forehead in her soft hair, his lungs filling with the smell of her, clean and fresh. But he had to concentrate on his mission. “Don’t talk. Listen. He’s a regional leader in the Hitler Youth. I met him through Professor Schreiber’s son, and I’ve seen him at Party meetings. Miss Vogelsang told him about these parties. He’s here to spy.”
“I see.” She stroked his fingers on her shoulder and nestled closer, a perfect fit in his embrace.
She’d let him have it later, but for now he surrendered. Savored. Even as his heart hammered at the dangers all around.
Peter nuzzled her ear, let his lips touch her warm skin, forced his brain back to his speech. “Your friends need to be warned. They are not free to speak. Probably never were. That is all. You may now slap me.”
Evelyn rolled her shoulder to disengage his hand, and she stood and gave him a sassy look, her color higher than usual. “You’re cute, Herr Lang, but I’m not looking for a college boy. I’m looking for a man.” She chucked him under the chin as if he were five years old.
Peter clapped a hand to his heart as if wounded. “I did ask you to insult me.”
“Two more insults to go.” She sauntered away in time to Gershwin, lean and leggy.
He blew out a long breath. Touching her like that hadn’t been wise, but it had been wonderful.
Peter tried to watch Libby play, but his gaze kept slipping to his rhapsody in red, now chatting by the kitchen door with Frau von Forstner.
The hostess stepped into the kitchen, and Evelyn leaned back against the wall by the door and smiled at her friend’s performance.
When Libby finished, Peter joined in the applause.
Frau von Forstner came to the front of the room. “Isn’t she a delight? Now, where is Fräulein Vogelsang? There you are. Would you be willing to bestow a song upon us?”
The singer beamed and made her way forward. “Why, yes. Thank you.”
“Have a seat here, dear. Before she sings, I’ve been told by our Fräulein Brand that our new friend, Herr Lang, does an interesting party trick.”
Peter laughed. “Party trick?”
Evelyn smiled smugly. What on earth did she mean?
“Come, Herr Lang.” His hostess beckoned.
Peter obeyed. The ladies had their reasons. As he made his way to the piano, he passed Diefenbach and his date, who took seats up front.
Frau von Forstner welcomed him by the piano. “Herr Lang teaches Germans to speak with an American accent and Americans to speak with a German accent.”
Peter checked his wristwatch. “I’m afraid your party will not be long enough.”
Laughter circled the room.
Frau von Forstner patted his arm. “Perhaps a demonstration?”
“Very well. How can I refuse so charming an invitation?” Peter smiled at the guests in their evening wear. “In America, I’m called Peter Lang.” He pronounced his last name the American way, rhyming with rang. “In Germany, I’m called Peter Lang.” He pronounced it the German way, like long.
Peter rested his hand on the piano. “The difference in pronunciation goes beyond the vowel. Fräulein Brand, since you put me on the spot, I shall put you on the spot. Please say the word Onkel.”
Still leaning by the kitchen door, Evelyn gaped at him but then recovered. “Onkel.”
“Very good. She pronounced every sound properly, and yet every German in this room knew immediately she was American or British, nicht wahr?”
Murmurs of agreement floated through the room, and Evelyn frowned in confusion.
A maid passed Peter with a tray of wineglasses.
He stepped out of her way and swung a smile to the hostess. “Frau von Forstner, you speak excellent English. Would you please say uncle?”
She did so, and the Americans and British in the room murmured.
“You hear it, don’t you?” Peter tapped his ear. “It’s the letter L. The sound labels you instantly, and yet it’s one of the easiest sounds to teach. All you need is an understanding of how we use the tongue and teeth and lips as we speak.”
The maid picked her way between two chairs, tripped, and cried out. Wine streamed in red arcs, glasses shattered, and everyone gasped.
“My gown!” Fräulein Vogelsang cried.
Diefenbach threw up his hands. His shirt front bloomed red as if he’d been shot in the chest. “Foolish girl!”
“Oh no!” Frau von Forstner rushed over. “Greta! What have you done? Fetch towels at once.”
The maid backed away, babbling apologies, and she scampered to the kitchen.
Frau von Forstner dabbed at Fräulein Vogelsang’s white dress with her handkerchief. “I am sorry. She is young. I will pay to have your clothes cleaned or replaced. Come with me, please. Rudi?” she called to a man by the door. “Bring the car around so we can send them home.”
Peter glanced to Evelyn, who gave him the slightest nod. That was no accident, and young Greta was in no danger of losing her job.
Frau von Forstner ushered her soiled guests to the foyer, waving over her shoulder. “Please continue, Herr Lang.”
Peter spread his hands wide. “As we say in America, ‘The show must go on.’”
He described the difference in the position of the mouth when Americans and Germans pronounced the letter L. Around the room, guests said Onkel and uncle, foreheads furrowed in concentration.
“Let’s break into groups of three to four people. Make sure you have a mix of nationalities in your group. Take turns working on this. I’ll circulate and help out.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, the groups worked together with much laughter and crying uncle. Peter visited the groups and gave pointers. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, and he even heard improvement.
Soon the groups were simply conversing, mingling resumed, and Peter enjoyed meeting various people. Evelyn flitted in and out of his vision, listening, laughing, connecting people, telling stories, completely in her element.
He resisted the urge to go to her, but his eyes were less obedient than his feet. Never once did her gaze turn his way, which told him all he needed to know. Relenting from the pursuit hadn’t swayed her heart any more than the pursuit itself had.
A lady sat at the piano and played a Chopin polonaise with feeling and talent, and Peter sat in an armchair to listen. Was Chopin banned or not? How could musicians keep it straight?
“I might be offended.” Evelyn perched on the left arm of his chair.
She’d sought him out, and pleasure surged through his chest. “Offended? How so?”
Evelyn lifted one shoulder under that filmy ruffle. “You visited all the groups to give pointers—except mine.”
That pleasure built in strength. She did notice him, after all. He rested his elbow on the right arm of the chair, deliberately leaning away from her. “I didn’t dare risk another insult.”
Her eyes flashed with fun. “You asked for insults. I still owe you two.”
Peter held up his hands in surrender. “Fire away.”
Her gaze roamed his face, and she brushed a curl away from her ear—the same ear Peter had nuzzled. “I—these things take time. Inspiration.”
“Shouldn’t take long.” He glanced around the room. “Get any story leads?”
“I did, and now I can write what—oh.” Her forehead and lips puckered. “I might have caused problems for your pal Norwood.”
Peter heaved a mock sigh. “What did you do to poor George?”
“Poor George, my foot.” She gave her head a shake, and curls sprang back over that sweet little ear. “I told you how he edited my work to death. Well, last week he was in France, and Mitch O’Hara was in charge. O’Hara let me send my stories straight to New York. Even a story Norwood had rejected—the one about the cafés.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose. “George rejected that? It was excellent.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn adjusted her perch. “The editors in New York were shocked at the change in my articles. And . . . pleased.”
“Pleased?”
She gave him a hesitant look. “ANS thought my articles had a pro-German slant.”
“Because of George’s editing.” Peter’s heart sank. What was his friend thinking?
“Yes. They called Hamilton Chase—he’s the European bureau chief in London. He called O’Hara in Berlin, and O’Hara told him everything. Yesterday, Chase told me to mail him the carbon copies of my original articles so he can compare to Norwood’s versions.”
“And George is in trouble?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. His family has a lot of pull though. But there’s a big difference between not insulting your host and praising your host.”
Peter drummed his fingers on the armrest. “George and I have always seen eye to eye. He likes the same things here that I do—I did.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened.
“I admit I like certain things here, but not at this cost. Not when you can’t perform Gershwin or when elderly men get arrested for calling Hitler a swine or when synagogues get razed.”
Evelyn studied him, her brown eyes intense.
Peter leaned back. “You still don’t trust me.”
“I trust you.” She cocked her head to the side. “Your tips have checked out.”
“You check up on me?” He had to smile.
“It’s my job. I check up on all my sources, especially the . . . the annoying ones.”
Peter laughed. “Now you only have one insult left.”
Evelyn stood and smiled down at him. “I’ll have to make it a doozy.”