MUNICH
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 24, 1938
Peter listened intently at the Nazi Party meeting. At home he’d write down his notes for Evelyn.
She’d be interested in tonight’s proceedings. Even if she couldn’t write an article about it, she’d want to know.
Three men were visiting from Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland region, which curved around the western flank of the nation.
The visitors stood at the swastika-festooned podium, describing how they incited riots and prompted clashes with the Czechoslovakian police. It didn’t matter if people were hurt—in fact, they wanted injuries. Then they could point fingers and say the Sudeten minority was oppressed. The German newspapers trumpeted stories of brutality in the Sudetenland, most of them false, the speakers stated.
Peter pushed his glasses higher. Clearly, Hitler meant to take the Sudetenland by force, perhaps the rest of Czechoslovakia. All the talk about diplomacy was a ruse. The Nazis were provoking a crisis to create an excuse to invade.
Sitting next to him, Otto von Albrecht sent him a grin, and Peter returned it despite the uneasiness in his soul.
Would it be wise for Evelyn to have this information in written form? Recently he’d asked whether she wanted him to censor out things that would be dangerous if found in her hands—or to let her decide for herself. She’d seemed surprised by his inquiry, even touched. Then she’d thanked him for trusting her, and her softened gaze had invigorated his hopes.
Peter stifled a sigh and shifted position in his chair. With the rising talk of war and with the Gestapo tailing Evelyn, romance needed to be shoved far from his mind.
The Sudeten Germans took their seats, and the leader of the Munich block of the Party came to the podium and ran through routine business of no interest to Evelyn. Or Peter.
He couldn’t wait to see how Evelyn would use tonight’s information. She had an incredible talent to tell the truth, often raising doubt as to whether it was truth or rumor, and artfully concealing her sources.
For all she’d complained of George’s editing, he’d taught her discretion. Now O’Hara let her write freely.
Poor George had to learn the opposite lesson, to be less discreet.
After business concluded, everyone stood to sing the “Horst Wessel Song,” honoring an early martyr for the Nazi cause.
Everyone but Peter saluted. He sang some, pretending to forget the words when they pained him. His reputation as a friendly American allowed him liberties.
The meeting adjourned, and the men broke into groups to chat.
Otto adjusted the leather strap that crossed diagonally over his brown uniform shirt. “Exciting times, ja?”
“Ja.” War would indeed be exciting—but terrifying and tragic.
Otto nudged him with his elbow. “Have we convinced you to join the Party?”
“If only I could.” Peter twiddled his hat in his hands. “I will have more influence in America if my allegiance remains secret. Then I can share all I’ve learned here.”
“That makes sense.” Otto raked back a lock of light brown hair from his forehead. “I miss seeing you on campus. How goes your summer?”
“Wunderbar. My dissertation is coming along. And the new class of American students will arrive soon, and I’ll make my recordings before the winter semester.”
“Good. Are you free this weekend? My father asked me to invite you to our lake house.”
“A weekend of swimming and boating in the Alps? Yes, please.”
Wolfgang Diefenbach approached. “Guten Abend, Herr Lang.”
“I’ll see you later.” Otto nodded to Peter and headed for another group.
A smile crossed Diefenbach’s chiseled face. “I understand our young friend Hans-Jürgen has sailed for America.”
“Yes. I attended his going-away party.” The joy and grief on Professor and Frau Schreiber’s faces had torn at his heart. “The Schreibers are grateful that you helped him obtain his exit visa.”
“My pleasure.” Diefenbach’s green eyes lit up. “After you talked to him, he spoke up at meetings. We saw he’s a good German after all.”
“Good. He will help Americans see the truth about Germany.” Although not the truth Diefenbach wanted.
“He was sad to miss the Nuremberg Rally though,” Diefenbach said.
“Naturally, but American universities start in September rather than October, so it couldn’t be helped.”
“A shame.” He beckoned to an army officer. “I told my friend about your work with Hans-Jürgen and your demonstration at the Forstner party—what I heard before I left.”
Peter clucked his tongue. “That was too bad about the wine.”
Diefenbach sniffed. “Frau von Forstner assured me the maid would be fired. Clumsy idiot. A Jew, I’m sure.”
Peter murmured. On the contrary, Frau von Forstner had given the maid a week off with pay, and she’d crossed Fräulein Vogelsang and Bannführer Diefenbach off future guest lists.
The army officer joined them in a field gray uniform. He stood several inches taller than Peter, his brown hair peppered with gray.
Diefenbach introduced Oberst Heinz-Eugen Eberhardt.
The colonel raised a friendly smile. “The language expert.”
Peter lowered his chin. “The Bannführer may have overstated my abilities.”
“Herr Lang is too modest,” Diefenbach said. “I have heard the results of his teaching. Not only does he have a knack for teaching pronunciation, but when he speaks to a group, he commands the room. Very impressive.”
Oberst Eberhardt clasped his hands behind his back. “You teach Germans to speak with an American accent.”
“I have, but the focus of my research is teaching Americans a German accent.”
“Those are useful skills.”
“Yes, they are.” Peter’s blood ran cold. Like many useful things, his skills had military applications, didn’t they? Either nation could use his techniques to train spies.
Eberhardt narrowed one eye a fraction of an inch. “How long are you in Germany?”
“A year, through February when the winter semester ends. I have been soaking up as much German culture as I can and eating more than my share of Wurst.”
Diefenbach chuckled. “Herr Lang is attending the Nuremberg Rally next week.”
“Good.” The colonel’s broad grin broke free. “You will find it stimulating.”
Peter shook the men’s hands and left the Führerbau, the new Nazi Party building.
A cool rain descended in the night, and Peter scrunched his hat lower. His breath grew ragged, and he rubbed his fingers together as he walked the slippery granite slabs paving the Königsplatz—no, the Nazis had renamed it the Königlicher Platz.
All his life Peter had striven for order, and now he lived in chaos—chaos he’d deliberately created.
His personal views had swung far from the Nazis, but in the presence of Nazis he spoke more like them than ever. Even though he hedged his words and avoided lying, he was being deceptive. He was misleading them as to his true beliefs.
The wind shifted, and the rain came straight at him. He tilted his head and turned up his jacket collar.
Even more disturbing than his own deception was Eberhardt’s interest in his work.
What if an American military or consular officer had overheard that conversation? How could they have known he was working undercover for an American reporter? They might have thought Peter was a spy for Germany. They might have seen him as a traitor.
Peter’s upper lip tingled, and he swiped away rain. No, sweat.
Black and white he knew. But this gray in-between land felt foreign and messy.
And dangerous.