NUREMBERG, GERMANY
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1938
In the night sky, beams from dozens of searchlights shot straight up to the clouds, outlining the rectangular Zeppelinfeld, four times larger than a football field.
Beside Peter in the grandstand, George Norwood tipped his head to the spectacle, holding on to his homburg. “It looks like a great Grecian temple.”
Peter nodded, but he saw a prison. Bars of light and dark. No way out.
On the field, over one hundred thousand brown-uniformed Party members stood in rank with standards held high. Martial music played as Party leaders marched down the center of the field.
“Isn’t this incredible?” George said. “Even better than a Harvard football game.”
Peter managed to crack a smile. “Considering Harvard’s record when we were there, that’s not much of a statement.”
George laughed. Despite their differing views, it was good to see George happy. And maybe one of the stories he wrote during the Nuremberg Rally would open his eyes.
Peter had told George he was attending the week-long rally to have the full German experience. It was better if George didn’t know about his activities on Evelyn’s behalf. Not only was he helping George’s nemesis, but his infiltration into the Nazi Party could be misinterpreted.
Peter’s foot tapped in time with the trumpets and drums, but he forced it to stop. The pomp stirred something within him, the majesty of the uniforms, the music, and the people united under a common purpose. But the purpose was skewed, polluting the entire spectacle.
At least tonight, sitting in the press section with the foreign correspondents, he didn’t need to spout beliefs he hated.
Hermann Göring marched by, encased in a uniform bedecked with ribbons and medals.
A reporter behind Peter laughed. “Look at that fat pig in his Halloween costume.”
“Some people have no manners,” George said, and not quietly.
“Say, Cal,” the reporter to Peter’s left called to the heckler. “Have you read Evelyn Brand’s latest articles? Can hardly believe ANS’s best reporter in Germany is a girl.”
“She’s a rising star,” Cal called back. “Ever since Norwood got the boot, that is.”
As thrilled as Peter was to hear about Evelyn’s success, he cringed for George’s sake.
George’s hands fisted between his knees, and he scooted his feet in, ready to stand.
Oh no. A fistfight would destroy George’s career.
“Say, George.” Peter gestured to the main grandstand. “Tell me who’s who. I can identify some of them, but not many.”
George’s gaze slid to him, rough with anger.
Peter gave him a calm smile. “Tell me who’s important. We know who isn’t important.”
One corner of George’s mouth flicked up, he straightened his posture, and he pointed out the Party luminaries.
The music shifted, and Adolf Hitler marched by with his entourage. Peter and George and the correspondents stood, as they would for any world leader. The rest of the stadium cheered and applauded.
Peter had heard Hitler speak earlier in the week, but never this close.
All around, reporters whipped out notepads. Evelyn would have done the same, those brown eyes sharp in concentration, those chestnut curls falling over her cheek as she wrote, one slim hand whisking those curls behind her ear.
Boy, did he miss her.
“I see your smile,” George said. “Hitler’s impressive, isn’t he?”
Peter studied the man who seemed to hold the world’s fate in his hands. Not a big man or a strong man or a handsome man, yet one who had drawn an entire nation under his will.
“Yes,” Peter said. “He certainly makes an impression.” But not a good one.
Hitler strode up to the concrete platform that jutted out from the main grandstand.
His influence didn’t come from his physical presence, but from his voice. His voice rose and fell and shook with emotion. His gestures accentuated his message, jabbing a finger, knifing his hand, pounding his fist.
“Say, Tony.” Cal tapped the shoulder of the reporter to Peter’s left. “Bet you five Reichsmarks he’ll rant against the Czechs.”
“You’re on.” Tony grinned back at him. “He’s saving it for the closing ceremony on Monday. Get ready to cough up some dough.”
Tony would win that bet, but Peter clamped his lips together. Going deeper into Nazi Party circles gained him information these reporters would love to have.
Based on that information, he could predict Hitler’s upcoming speech on Monday night. The Führer would list injustices committed by the Czechs against the Sudeten Germans—although the land had been peaceful until the Nazis incited violence. He would lambast the leaders of Czechoslovakia, making Germany sound like a pitiful victim and Czechoslovakia a bully. He’d say the Sudeten Germans deserved self-determination, and Hitler would see they had it.
In the giant stadium, before the adoring crowd, Hitler rose in pitch, bouncing on his toes, stabbing the night sky. He thrived on power, craved it.
Peter’s face tingled. If Hitler’s army invaded Czechoslovakia to “help” the Sudeten Germans, France was bound by treaty to aid Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union was bound by treaty to aid France. Although Britain talked about appeasing Germany, surely honor would drive them to fight as well.
Another European war.
Peter swallowed hard. Everything in him recoiled, but maybe it would be best.
Germany was strong, but not strong enough to fight four of the best armies in the world. If Germany lost, the Nazis would fall. Hitler would fall.
Peter stared down the red-faced, gesticulating man at the podium. Go ahead and invade, Adolf. I dare you.
NUREMBERG
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1938
Outside Peter’s hotel, it smelled like rain. But the clouds held back, their cheeks puffed full, waiting. The deluge would come and soon.
Peter strode across the Hauptmarkt plaza. His navy blue civilian suit was out of place among the numerous uniforms, just as those modern Nazi uniforms contrasted with the ornate medieval fountain and the Gothic brick church.
“Peter! Peter Lang!”
He turned around. George Norwood and his older brother, Charles, approached from the same hotel, and Peter waited for them to catch up.
“Where are you going?” George asked.
Peter tilted his head south. “To meet my friend Otto and his father at the Deutscher Hof.”
“Where Hitler is staying. Must be a nice hotel.” George adjusted his hat. “I’m interviewing Hugh Wilson, the new American ambassador to Germany. Charles arranged it for me.” Charles’s job at the US Embassy in Berlin provided excellent connections.
“Sounds great.” Peter resumed walking, and the Norwood brothers fell in beside him.
“You’ll like the ambassador, Georgie.” Charles never let his brother forget he was seven years older.
“Far better than the previous ambassador.” George wrinkled his nose. “William Dodd.”
Charles shook his head and puffed out cigarette smoke. “Didn’t know the first thing about diplomacy. But Wilson does. He’s here for the rally. Dodd could never be bothered.”
A crowd of boys in tan-and-black Hitler Youth uniforms ran by, laughing and shouting, and Peter stepped aside to let them pass. Evelyn had called Ambassador Wilson’s attendance controversial. Since the rally was a Party function, not a government function, a diplomatic visit implied official US approval of the Nazi Party.
Charles led the way across a little bridge over the Pegnitz River. “A good diplomat knows the less we antagonize Germany, the better it is for business.”
“True.” Peter frowned upstream at the Heilig Geist Spital, a picturesque medieval building that spanned the still waters. Building bridges between nations might be good for business, but perhaps Hitler needed less business and more censure.
“True indeed.” George gestured toward the street ahead, where red-and-black swastika banners hung from each building. “Let Germany be. They’re doing well. Far better than America.”
A suspicion wormed inside, and Peter tested it. “If only we could follow Germany’s example.”
George laughed and tapped his brother’s arm. “I told you Peter was smart. He’ll let people back home know how good the Germans have it.”
Peter’s stomach shriveled, but he worked up a smile for his old friend. His fraternity brother. “You’re in a better position to do that than I am.”
George’s face darkened. “Not if ANS has its way. I can’t believe they haven’t reinstated me, even with O’Hara out of the way.”
What had happened? “Out of the way?”
George’s shoes slapped the cobblestones. “He and that Brand girl conspired against me so O’Hara could get my position. Then the old fool got in trouble with the Gestapo, and he transferred to Rome.”
“Oh no.” Evelyn hadn’t mentioned O’Hara’s troubles—and he knew for certain there had been no conspiracy.
“Don’t feel sorry for O’Hara.” Charles gave Peter a look as if tutoring a child. “He had it coming.”
“And Brand.” George’s eyes flashed. “Typical pushy Jewish broad. The way she’s writing lately, she’ll get herself expelled. Or worse.”
Peter glanced away to conceal his expression. His worry for Evelyn. His disgust at the Norwood brothers. Peter’s father had often joked that it was great to have the Norwoods as friends—because you didn’t want them as enemies. Now he understood.
“Here we are.” Charles stopped in front of a hotel. “We’ll see you later, Peter.”
“See you later.” Peter couldn’t manage to say, “Hope your interview goes well.” Not after George had shown no concern for Evelyn or her mentor.
He continued on his way, over the cobblestones, under the crimson banners. Perhaps he should call Evelyn and warn her.
Warn her of what? That her writing could put her in danger? She already knew that. Peter would sound like an overbearing, caging sort of man.
A banner hung low in his path, and he whapped it aside.
He was sick of banners. Sick of swastikas. Sick of parades and spectacles. Sick of rants against the Czechs and the Jews.
Sick of Nuremberg. Sick . . . of Germany.
His groan settled deeper. If he didn’t have meetings scheduled at the rally, he’d return to Munich. And if he didn’t have a fellowship and a commitment to teach and research to complete, he’d return to the States.
But his meetings might yield information for Evelyn. Even if she couldn’t write the stories while she was in Germany, perhaps she could after she left. If George was correct, that could be soon.
Peter breathed out a prayer for her safety and her ability to continue as a foreign correspondent—even if it took her farther from him.
In a few minutes, he arrived at the Deutscher Hof, a grand red brick building. He took the stairs, found the Albrechts’ suite, and knocked.
A servant led Peter to a parlor, where two men were seated.
In his black SS uniform, Standartenführer Ludwig Graf von Albrecht rose and greeted Peter. “Otto won’t be joining us. He’s participating in the athletic games.” He turned to the other gentleman, who was wearing a field gray army officer’s uniform. “Herr Oberst, may I introduce Herr Peter Lang. Herr Lang, this is Oberst Franz Ziegler with the Abwehr.”
Military intelligence? Why did they want to meet Peter?
After Peter declined offers for cigarettes and drinks, he settled onto an overstuffed sofa and Albrecht returned to his armchair.
Ziegler stood by the fireplace, an unusual-looking man in his forties, with close-set eyes and the most triangular face Peter had ever seen. “You probably wonder why we invited you here.”
“I do.” Peter shifted in his seat, seeking a comfortable position.
Ziegler cradled the bowl of a pipe in his hand. “Word has come to us of your high regard for our country and of your personal attributes.”
The count swirled amber liquid in his tumbler. “At my lake house I had the pleasure of spending several days with this young man, and I’ve observed him at numerous Party meetings. However, I’ve never seen him give the Hitler greeting.”
Peter crossed his ankle over his knee. “I apologize, Herr Standartenführer, but as an American citizen, it wouldn’t be proper for me to swear allegiance to a foreign leader.”
Both men grinned. “That is good,” Ziegler said. “And useful.”
“Useful?”
“Tell us of your interest in Germany and our regime.” Ziegler set his pipe in his mouth.
Why did Peter feel as if he were interviewing for a job—a job he hadn’t applied for? Yet an air of anticipation in the room drove him onward. “My mother came from Germany, as did my father’s parents. I grew up speaking both German and English and knew from a young age I wanted to be a professor of German. When I spent my junior year in Munich, I fell in love with the land and the people, but I hated the poverty and chaos. Now I have returned. I have seen the order, the prosperity, and the happiness of the people.”
When Ziegler narrowed his eyes, they almost disappeared. “Do you have a more . . . personal reason?”
Something told Peter this was a doorway, and he wanted to know what lay on the other side. He lowered his gaze to his lap, and his fingers clenched. “My father was killed by a mob of communists. I—I saw him die.” He raised a hard gaze. “Germany does not have a problem with communists.”
The men smiled. The doorway opened.
“Didn’t I tell you, Herr Oberst?” Albrecht sipped his liquor. “He’s articulate and amiable. Studious but strapping. Assured but not arrogant. And Otto says he is a gifted speaker.”
“Thank you, Herr Standartenführer.” Peter draped his elbow over the back of the sofa. “But I haven’t been told why I’m being questioned and flattered.”
Ziegler plucked his pipe from his mouth. “When do you return to America?”
“In February, after the winter semester.”
“Would you like a project? One that will benefit both our nations?”
Peter’s heart thumped as if he were tiptoeing through that doorway, apprehensive, curious. “I would need more information.”
Ziegler laughed and strolled behind Albrecht’s chair. “Have no fear. We would never ask you to commit treason. Your allegiance to your country is a benefit to us.”
What an odd thing to say. “Continue.”
“Many Americans have a dim view of Germany. We need men to speak on our behalf.”
“You have the German-American Bund in the States.”
Ziegler huffed, sending fragrant gray smoke into the room. “Most Americans see them as clowns. As thugs. The swastikas and uniforms and goose-stepping appeal to Germans, but not to your people. The Bund will never have a broad influence.”
Peter murmured. Thank goodness for that.
“We need more subtle influence, and we need to organize those who believe as we do.” Ziegler gestured to Peter with his pipe. “We believe you are our man. Not only your personal qualities, but your connections in politics and business and soon in the legal field.”
Even as his heart stalled, Peter raised half a smile. Ziegler had researched his family and already knew about his father’s death.
Ziegler strolled back to the fireplace. “You would press our case with your contacts, students, and colleagues. You would give lectures about your experiences in Germany.”
Peter’s fingers rubbed together. “Please define this case you’d like me to press.”
“Simple.” Ziegler shrugged. “First, counteract the bad reports about Germany with the good. Second, remind Americans of the dangers of interfering in Europe again.”
“Promote isolationism.”
“Yes. It is popular in America. Make it more so.” Ziegler rested his forearm on the mantel. “Third, remind them of the dangers of communism and of the importance of a strong Germany as a hedge against the Soviet threat.”
Peter licked his drying lips. “And ideally to bring National Socialism to America, ja?”
Ziegler smiled. “That would be good for your nation. What do you think, Herr Lang?”
While his thoughts spun, Peter rose and headed for the bar, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. Six months ago, he would have accepted eagerly. But not now.
What good would it do to accept? Evelyn couldn’t write about this meeting—Peter would be revealed as her informant and they’d both be in great danger. But declining might alert the Nazis to his true allegiance. The smartest choice would be to accept with no intention of following through.
What new dangers might that introduce?
“Tell him the most important part,” Albrecht said.
Peter turned around and sipped his coffee, trying to look casual.
Ziegler pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I have a list of men in America, reasonable and respected men in positions of power. All have contacted us and stated sympathy with our cause. You would be our liaison. You’d give them points to proclaim in the media, in their organizations, through legislation, in talks with their congressmen. You would connect them—not an official organization, but a loose network. Subtlety is vital.”
Peter stared at the envelope. His thoughts slowed in their clockwise spin, stopped, and began spinning counterclockwise.
Ziegler tapped the envelope on the mantel. “We would communicate with you by letters, friendly letters written by fictional university students to their former instructor. They would mention things about Germany or pleas for peace or complaints about communism.”
Breathing deeply to keep his mind clear, Peter returned to the sofa. “Those would be the points to stress.”
“Yes, and if we had a new contact for you, we’d scatter the hometown and first and last names throughout the letter and underline them. For example, ‘Herman and I went hiking the other day,’ and ‘How was your trip to Detroit?’”
“Clever.” Peter set his cup and saucer on an end table. His jangled nerves didn’t need extra stimulation.
Ziegler held the envelope to his chest. “This also lists two German agents in America in case you need to communicate with us. You must contact them only if necessary and with the greatest delicacy. Your nation just passed a law requiring all foreign agents to register with your State Department, but these two agents will not comply. They must remain secret.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Albrecht swirled his tumbler, and his gaze speared Peter. “That list must not fall into the wrong hands.”
“The FBI.” More than anything, Peter wanted that list so he could place it in FBI hands.
“You would have to memorize everything in this envelope and burn it. You must not bring it into the US.”
“Indeed not.” Yet that was exactly what Peter planned to do.
“I like you, Peter.” Albrecht gave him a thin smile that argued with his words. “But if you were to cross us, it would be very bad for you.”
“Think carefully.” Ziegler gave the same thin smile, even more sinister on that sharp-cornered face. “You are not bound yet, but once you agree, once you receive the list . . .”
Peter shot up a prayer for guidance, and the urge within him strengthened. The danger was great, but the benefits were greater.
He stood, straight and tall, his chin firm. “I agree.”
The greatest service he could now perform would be to break his word.