MUNICH
THURSDAY, AUGUST 11, 1938
The aromas in Herr Gold’s café usually stimulated Evelyn’s appetite and creativity, but today both were squelched.
Across the road, on a bench in the Gärtnerplatz park, sat a man in a tan coat and a tan hat, reading a tan book. This wasn’t the first time Evelyn had seen him there.
Peter would arrive in five minutes. From her seat, she could see the path he always took.
Herr Gold came out with a coffeepot and refilled cups for the half-dozen customers.
Evelyn held up her cup, even though it was almost full. “Would you please open the curtains all the way? It’s a dreary day, and I’d love more light.”
“Yes, Fräulein.” He pushed aside the blue-and-white striped café curtains, then sat across from Evelyn and leaned his elbows on the table, on her papers. “May I make an observation?”
“Please.” Evelyn blew on her coffee.
“This is the third time you have asked me to open the curtains. The two previous times, Herr Lang did not make his regular visit.”
“What a strange coincidence.” Evelyn met the café owner’s gaze over the rim of her cup.
Herr Gold flicked a glance to the window without moving his head. “That must be a very good book.”
“It must, to read outside on such an unpleasant day.”
“This café is your home. If you ever want sunshine, please don’t hesitate to open the curtains.” He stood and returned to filling cups.
Evelyn riffled through her notes, though she could barely remember her topic.
Right on time, Peter came into view in a light gray suit and hat, his stride strong and sure.
“Go away,” she whispered as if he could hear her.
He turned and crossed the street toward the Apotheke in the next block as if the pharmacy had been his destination all along.
Evelyn released a pent-up breath. Thank goodness, Peter was smart and vigilant.
The Gestapo had been watching her more closely, and she didn’t want them to see her with Peter, lest the Nazis suspect he was informing on them. Peter had planted red herrings with his friends, saying he was using Evelyn to spread pro-Nazi propaganda. As proof, he’d shown them the Norwood-mangled article on the exchange students, full of glowing quotes from Peter.
But why take chances? Better not to be seen together in the first place.
Frau Engel understood. Last week, she’d passed Evelyn a message folded in a newspaper, which stated it would be the final message. She’d observed the extra eyes on Evelyn. Although Evelyn hated to lose an informant, she refused to risk Frau Engel’s life.
The café door flew open. Magda Müller dashed to Evelyn’s table. “Fräulein—”
“You shouldn’t be here.” For Gestapo benefit, Evelyn had to pretend Magda was a complete stranger. She gestured to her overflowing table. “I’m sorry, Fräulein. I have no room.”
Magda plopped into the chair and scooted close, her brown eyes huge. “This is urgent.”
With her smile fixed, Evelyn worked hard to keep her voice firm and low. “Nothing could be urgent enough to justify the chance you took. What if we’re being watched?” She didn’t dare draw Magda’s attention to Herr Gestapo, but out of the corner of her eye, Evelyn saw the agent sit up straighter and peer through the café window.
Magda shook her head, her hair dull from too much bleach, and she opened her purse. “Ulrich gave me—”
“Close your purse,” Evelyn said in the sharpest tone she could muster at low volume. “This is what we’ll do. In a moment, I will spill coffee on my papers. You will open your purse and pull out a handkerchief to help clean up. You will add your papers to mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Fräulein.” Magda folded squat-fingered hands atop her purse.
Evelyn sipped coffee, keeping an unrelenting gaze on the young woman. “After I pack, we will talk for a few minutes. Then I will leave. You will order food and stay here at least another hour. That is very important. Do you understand?”
She nodded, but annoyance flickered over her pretty features. “No one followed me.”
“How do you know I’m not being watched? Never do this again. You know how to contact me. You put both our lives at risk, and your man’s as well.”
Magda’s tiny chin poked out, then she drew it back in and sighed. “I understand.”
“Good.” If only Magda were as careful as Frau Engel. Evelyn closed her typewriter case to protect the machine. Then she drank some coffee and set the cup down off center so it sloshed. “Oh dear!”
“Ach!” Magda gasped and opened her purse.
Evelyn whisked her napkin off her lap.
Their hands met on the table—a handkerchief, a napkin, Evelyn’s soiled article, a new set of folded papers. In the dabbing process, Evelyn slid her papers on top of Magda’s.
Herr Gold peeked out of the kitchen.
“It’s all right. A small spill, all taken care of.” Evelyn sent him a smile. “But in a few minutes, the Fräulein would like to order. She doesn’t know what she wants yet.”
“Very good. I will return shortly.”
After Evelyn blotted up the coffee, she gathered the papers into her portfolio. For the next ten minutes, she made boring small talk about movies, Magda’s hat, and the weather.
Herr Gestapo still sat there. If only it would pour down rain.
Evelyn had to leave first so he’d follow her and not Magda. She picked up her typewriter, purse, and portfolio. “It was lovely meeting you, Fräulein. Enjoy your lunch.”
Outside, cool mugginess pressed down, low and gray. She strolled north, sweeping her gaze over the Gestapo man as if he were as invisible as he thought he was. On her way home, she’d meander through the Viktualienmarkt and buy potatoes or something, as if in no hurry at all, as if she didn’t carry incendiary papers.
Two weeks earlier, Magda had given her information about a military plot to arrest Hitler the moment he activated the plan to invade Czechoslovakia. The report had included the names of General Gerlach and other officers involved in the coup plan. Evelyn had burned the papers. Didn’t Magda know those men would be executed if the report fell into Gestapo hands? And Evelyn would be executed for espionage.
Evelyn had rebuked the young woman. She’d better have learned her lesson.
Everything in her wanted to run home, read the papers, and destroy them before the Gestapo caught up with her. But a casual attitude was her best defense, so she strolled at a leisurely pace and didn’t once look behind her.
In the farmer’s market, bright stalls beckoned but held almost no fruit and few vegetables.
Cabbages—perhaps she could make coleslaw. She picked up a head and hefted it.
“That one looks good, Fräulein.” Peter’s voice.
So much for him being smart and vigilant. Without looking up, she examined more cabbages. “You shouldn’t talk to me.”
“Don’t worry. Your shadow is gone.”
“Hmm?” She glanced up.
A smile bent those fine lips. “Right after you left, another woman departed. He followed her—I made sure. I had no trouble catching up with you.”
Evelyn squeezed the cabbage so hard, she’d have to buy it. “Oh no. The other woman—was she young, blonde, curvy?”
Peter frowned. “I believe so.”
Bother. Why hadn’t Magda listened to instructions? Evelyn would have to be careful meeting her in the future or stop meeting her entirely. She couldn’t afford reckless informants.
“Someone you know?” Peter asked.
“Go look at the radishes across the way.” Evelyn sloped the broad brim of her hat to shield her face. She pulled a string bag and cash from her purse, paid for the cabbage, and put it in her bag.
Peter hadn’t left. “I don’t need radishes. But don’t worry. Even if Mr. Shadow were here, he’d find our conversation boring.”
Evelyn went to the next stall with its bins of potatoes. “Boring? Why? Are you going to lecture me on the correct pronunciation of the u-umlaut?”
Deep, rich laughter welled up. “I’ve been waiting for the third insult for almost three weeks. That was worth the wait.”
Evelyn smiled with satisfaction, but her chest warmed at her memories of Peter’s anything-but-boring lecture at the soiree. He’d been so engaging, speaking with authority and warmth and humor. He had . . . presence.
That evening, when he’d asked for another insult, she’d been stumped. The only adjectives that had come to mind had been complimentary. Manly. Captivating. Tempting.
Those would not have done. Not at all.
Evelyn wheeled to the potatoes, and the heat spread up her neck. “What is this boring conversation you have for me?”
“I said it would bore Mr. Shadow, not you. George Norwood called last night.”
“He did?” She scrunched up her face. “He must be furious.”
Peter angled to reach around her, and he picked up a potato with long, supple fingers. “Most men are when they lose their jobs.”
“He didn’t lose his job. He was demoted, but the ANS is letting him stay in Berlin as a correspondent. That was generous of them.”
“It was. I told him so.” He picked up another potato. “I know he was being cautious and thought he was representing American interests, but he went too far.”
Norwood’s bias surpassed caution and protecting business, but she let Peter off the hook since Norwood was his oldest friend. “He must be angry with me.”
Peter set down the potato and brushed dirt off his hands. “Yes, but he’s mostly angry at your friend O’Hara. George says O’Hara sabotaged him to get his job.”
Evelyn let out a laugh. “Hardly. O’Hara turned down the job before they offered it to Norwood. He’s only filling in as chief until ANS sends a replacement.”
Peter glanced at her sidelong, his hat shadowing his eyes. “I imagine you’ll be in Berlin soon.”
“No, I’m staying here.” Not long ago, she would have fumed about that. “O’Hara says I’ve made good connections and I’m getting good stories. He likes having a correspondent in southern Germany. It makes ANS more flexible.”
“I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted Berlin.” His voice sank in compassion.
“Thank you, but I don’t mind. I like Munich. I have friends here.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. The same ear.
How many times since the soiree had she exposed that ear to Peter, as if inviting him to caress her again with his warm breath, his rumbling voice, his soft lips?
Far too many times, and she whirled to the potatoes and flagged down the woman behind the stall. “Zwei Kartoffeln, bitte.”
Evelyn paid the lady and added the two potatoes to her string bag.
“Well, I’m glad you’re staying.” Peter inclined his head, and the shadow rose from his eyes, revealing disarming warmth in that blue.
That warmth flooded into her smile. “Thank you. I . . . I should go home now.”
“May I help? You have your arms full.”
“No, thank you. I can handle it myself.”
“Of course, you can.” Peter tipped his hat and a smile. “Auf Wiedersehen.”
Evelyn frowned at his back, that strong back. She threaded her arm through the loop of the string bag, clutched her portfolio, and picked up her typewriter case from between her feet. Her purse strap slipped off her shoulder, and she rearranged everything.
She did have a lot to carry, and it was heavy. Peter had offered to help, not because she wasn’t capable, but because he was capable.
Evelyn headed toward her apartment, the string cutting into her forearm. What was wrong with her? Would it have hurt to have allowed Peter to help?
No. No, it wouldn’t.
Or would it? True, Peter hadn’t asked her out in ages, but . . . the soiree. Libby said he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. And when he’d embraced her . . .
Oh my! Evelyn blew a breath upward to cool her heating face. Not just the way he’d nuzzled her ear, but the feel of his arm around her, the way he’d stroked her shoulder, the warmth of his solid torso against her side. It had felt very good.
Evelyn stopped and shifted her gear between arms. Yes, embraces felt good. Kisses felt even better. But everything had felt good with Howard and Clark and Warren.
She couldn’t let herself be fooled by strong arms and fine lips and engaging banter. What if Peter was like Howard and Clark and Warren?
Evelyn didn’t want to find out the hard way.