TWENTY-TWO
MUNICH
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1938
Evelyn and Libby strolled into the grounds of the Oktoberfest along with the new Junior Year in Munich students, with Peter in the lead.
Under a clear, warm sky, crowds swarmed the main road. Children laughed from an airplane ride to her left and from a Ferris wheel to her right. Gigantic brewery tents flanked the road, their wooden façades topped by giant beer steins or kegs. In the distance, the Alps raised snowy, craggy heads above the roller coaster and pavilions.
“I’m glad you thought to come with Peter’s class.” Libby wore a pale green dirndl, and a braid circled her head. “I really wanted to attend, but it didn’t seem safe just the two of us.”
“I understand.” Evelyn adjusted the embroidered red bodice over her white puffed-sleeve blouse. If only she had the bosom for a dirndl.
Libby nudged her. “Interview the students. I know your pen is itching for paper.”
Evelyn laughed and passed a stall selling big soft pretzels stacked high on poles. “The interviews can wait. Today is for you and me. I—I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” On Monday morning Libby was taking the train to Hamburg, and then she’d sail for New York. “Are you disappointed that I’m not as brave as you?”
“Brave? Or stark raving crazy?”
“Both.” Libby winked at her. “The closer we get to war, the more excited you get. When the bombs start falling, you’ll probably run around like a child in a snowfall.”
The image almost made Evelyn laugh. “I won’t. But you have to admit, it’s exciting to be in the middle of something big and watch it unfold before your eyes.”
Libby gazed to the tent tops, each with a Nazi flag waving high. “I’d prefer to watch from a safe distance.”
Unless something happened soon, Germany would be at war in a week.
After Hitler’s incendiary final speech at the Nuremberg Rally, the Sudeten Germans had rioted, leading the Czechoslovakian government to declare martial law.
Britain and France had begged Czechoslovakia to cede the Sudetenland to Germany, and British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain had met with Hitler twice. Czechoslovakia’s President Edvard Beneš had accepted Hitler’s demands—but then Hitler had raised them. If his latest demands weren’t met, he would invade Czechoslovakia on October 1.
About fifteen feet ahead, one of the students, a lanky young man in a gray suit, caught up to Peter. “Why do they call it Oktoberfest when it’s September?”
Peter chuckled. “It ends in October.”
A petite brunette leaned in. “This year it isn’t called Oktoberfest but the Grossdeutsches Volkfest.” She gave Peter an expectant “did I earn an A?” look.
Evelyn frowned. The Greater German Folk Festival, celebrating the union with Austria and the soon-to-be union with the Sudetenland.
“So . . .” Libby gave Evelyn a mischievous smile. “When will you give Peter a chance?”
Evelyn pressed her finger to her lips and lowered her voice. “Never.”
“Come on. He even looks good in lederhosen.”
Libby was wrong. Peter didn’t look good. He looked great. The leather pants hit above his knees, showing off well-muscled calves. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forest-green suspenders with colorful embroidery, and the green Bavarian hat he’d worn when hiking in the Partnach Gorge.
“I know you like him,” Libby whispered.
Evelyn leveled her gaze at her friend. “You were there when I dated Howard and Clark. I told you what Warren did to me.”
“He isn’t like them. There are good men in this world.”
Evelyn shrugged. There were for soft and sweet women like Libby, but not for her.
Up ahead, Peter stopped and turned to the side. “Have you ever seen so much sauerkraut in your life?” he said loudly.
Sauerkraut? Evelyn caught her breath, grabbed Libby’s elbow, and tugged her to the nearest booth, where a lady sold beribboned floral wreaths. “Aren’t these pretty?”
“Yes, they are.” A question stretched Libby’s voice.
True, Evelyn never fussed over ribbons and flowers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peter talking to a sturdily built young man in a brown Nazi uniform, possibly from the Students’ League. They’d chosen sauerkraut as a code word in case they ran into certain people.
They had a good cover story. The ANS would welcome an article about the American students’ first impressions of Germany, but it was better if Peter’s Nazi friends and Evelyn’s Gestapo buddies didn’t see them together.
Especially now that Peter had the list. Evelyn fingered the colorful paper flowers on a wreath, and she shuddered.
What would the Nazis do if they learned Peter’s plans for that list?
Her chest warmed at his courage, at his principles. He could have declined the list without any repercussions, but he’d taken it.
Peter was a fine man. But that didn’t mean he was fine for her. The only way to determine if monsters lurked in dark waters was to dive in. Then it would be too late.
“The red one.” Peter’s deep voice rumbled over her shoulder, down into her heart. That was no monster’s roar.
She pulled herself together and inspected a yellow wreath without turning around. “Who was that?”
“Otto von Albrecht. Don’t worry. He’s going home.”
Oh. The son of the SS officer who had arranged for Peter to get the list of American Nazi sympathizers—and German spies.
“Which one would you like, Libby?” Peter asked. “My treat. A going-away present.”
“How sweet of you.” Libby sent him a beaming smile, then selected a wreath with green ribbons and yellow flowers.
“And you, Evelyn?” he asked.
Part of her wanted to pick any color but red, but . . . she picked one with red ribbons and red and white flowers.
Peter paid the lady, and Libby pinned her wreath over her braid.
“May I?” Peter settled Evelyn’s onto her head like a crown. “Very pretty.”
“Thank you.” She rearranged bobby pins to hold the wreath in place.
Peter smiled in a way that made her want to dive into those dark waters—a big tumbling, somersaulting Olympic dive. “Very pretty.”
He’d already said that. It wasn’t true. As Herr Zero had so kindly reminded her, she wasn’t an attractive woman.
But at that moment, with Peter smiling at her, she felt beautiful. Feminine.
The lanky student leaned in. “There’s dancing in the next tent. May we?”
Peter grinned at the boy. “You’re adults. You don’t need teacher’s permission.”
Libby laughed and pushed Peter along the path. “They’re not asking for your permission but your company. Let’s go.”
“Great idea.” He hooked arms with both Libby and Evelyn, and he strode ahead.
Evelyn leaned back to shoot Libby a poisonous dart of a glance, but Libby deflected the dart with a smug smile.
The class stepped into a giant tent, striped in sky blue and white, the Bavarian colors. At the front, a traditional band played a rollicking tune. Couples whirled past, feet stomping, skirts swinging.
Libby circled behind Peter and Evelyn, and she leaned close to Evelyn’s ear. “My going-away present to you.” Then she found a tall, good-looking junior.
The student erupted in a smile and spun Libby away.
Peter bowed to Evelyn and kissed her hand. “May I have this dance, Fräulein?”
Warmth flowed from the back of her hand up her arm. “I don’t know the steps.”
“Looks like you just gallop in a circle.”
Evelyn’s feet did itch to dance. “I can gallop.”
“Great.” Peter gathered her in his arms and whirled her away in a flurry of feet and laughter.
He led with confidence but not force, his body solid and strong, his arm about her, his shoulder warm beneath her hand, his long legs bumping hers as they galloped and twirled.
A riot of color all around her, and Evelyn gave in to the joy of it, the abandon of it. Peter’s face shone with the same joy, and she laughed with him.
If only, if only, if only. What would it be like to let go, to surrender herself to the depths? What if he stayed as he was, kind and accepting? What if he could live with her sharp points?
A strange look crossed Peter’s face. Alarm. Disgust.
He stopped abruptly and brushed at a ribbon that had fluttered across her throat. “Maybe red ribbons were a bad choice.”
“What?”
Peter pulled her toward the wall away from the throng, his eyebrows drawn together under the brim of his hat. “Here. Turn your back to me.”
She did so. “I don’t understand.”
He gathered the ribbons behind her. “Let me tie these. It—it reminded me. In the—in the French Revolution, women wore red ribbons around their necks to mock . . .”
To mock those headed to the guillotine.
Evelyn’s hand flew to her throat. Here in a land where the guillotine was used to silence political foes.
Used by these galloping, twirling, laughing people.
Peter tied the ribbons in a knot at the nape of Evelyn’s slender neck, and he grimaced. Why had he mentioned the guillotine after she’d been visited by the Gestapo, after her mentor had been targeted? “I’m sorry. I don’t usually . . .”
“I know.” Her voice trembled.
He raised his hands to her shoulders, hesitated, then settled them in place. Her shoulders felt both strong and delicate. “I really am sorry.”
Evelyn spun into the dancing position, her head lowered. “Let’s dance before we get trampled.”
His lips longed to kiss her forehead, but he swung her back into the maelstrom.
The levity was gone. The innocence.
The song ended, and everyone applauded. Then the band started a slower number, and Peter held out his arms. “Shall we?”
Evelyn scanned the crowd and stepped back into position. “We’re less conspicuous dancing than we would be watching.”
Conspicuous. Peter waltzed her deeper into the crowd and searched for familiar faces, like the agent who prowled the Gärtnerplatz. His arm tightened around the gentle curve of Evelyn’s waist.
If she transferred, the ANS would send her to London or Paris or Moscow, and he’d never see her again. However, she needed to leave and soon. “How long do you plan to stay in Germany?”
She frowned at him. “I’m not planning on leaving.”
Peter twirled her past the band. “Maybe you should consider transferring.”
Sparks flew in that coffee-with-two-splashes-of-milk brown. “That’s my decision to make. No one else’s.”
Peter huffed. He’d never known anyone so resistant to suggestion. “For heaven’s sake. I want to leave myself.”
The sparks fizzled out. “You do?”
“That—delivery. The longer I keep the cargo, the more dangerous it becomes, the more likely I’ll slip and reveal which side I’m on. The sooner I deliver it, the better.”
“That’s true.” Ripples flowed over her forehead.
Peter edged around an elderly couple. “But the winter semester hasn’t even started. I can’t leave until it’s over. I made a commitment to teach. And for my dissertation, I need both sets of recordings of this class—before and after.”
“Libby’s going home. Could she make the deli—”
“Absolutely not. What if they search her before she boards? They do that. I’ll take that risk, but I won’t let anyone else take it for me.”
Evelyn studied him as they swayed to the music.
Peter held her gaze, watched her emotions shift, and knew deep inside he mustn’t release her.
She blinked rapidly. “I—I apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped. You were being a—a good friend.”
Warmth flooded through him. At last, he’d earned her trust. And he sensed a shifting, her affection bending toward him, her resistance lowering.
He lifted a little smile. “I understand. You don’t like it when you think someone’s trying to put you in a cage.”
Her eyebrows jolted upward. “No. No, I don’t.”
That was now Peter’s greatest fear—her work could land her in a cage. But saying so would be foolhardy.
A strange sensation developed between his shoulder blades, as if someone were pushing him—pushing him to push Evelyn.
Talk about foolhardy. But the pressure increased. Should he? Peter waltzed Evelyn past the door, and he drew a deep breath. “What did he do to you?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Norwood?”
He kept his voice gentle. “Whoever tried to tame you and cage you. What did he do?”
Evelyn’s step hitched, and her gaze darted away. “I never said anyone did that.”
“You spoke with the voice of experience.”
The muscles of her back squirmed beneath his hand. “None of your business.”
Another push between his shoulder blades. Was that the Lord? He’d never had anything like that happen before.
He frowned at Evelyn’s beflowered, stony profile. She was already annoyed at him. What did he have to lose by obeying?
Peter gave her stiff hand a squeeze. “It’s very much my business. You’ve placed all men in the same category as this other man, just because we’re males.”
Evelyn’s jaw thrust forward.
Ideas rolled through his head in beautiful, logical order. “In your job, you’re often dismissed because you’re a woman. It isn’t right. I used to hate all communists because of what happened to my father. It wasn’t right. And our hosts hate those who hold different religious or political beliefs. It isn’t right.”
Evelyn gasped. “It isn’t the same.”
Peter rocked her in a turn. “Isn’t it? Treating an individual a certain way because he belongs to a certain group—sounds the same to me.”
Her eyes flitted back and forth, doubting, questioning, defying. “But—”
“But if you prize individuality, as I know you do, consider treating men as individuals. Not all men fit in your neat little box.” A smile played on his lips as his words played with hers.
Evelyn sucked in a breath, and confusion and comprehension battled for control of her face.
More words welled up. Words he’d longed to say for months and other words he only now knew to be true.
Pressure built on his throat. Not choking, but restraining.
Mercy. The word drifted like the fragrance of Evelyn’s hair.
He swallowed his words, gathered her close, and danced.
Mercy. Mercy to give her time to contemplate what he’d said. Mercy not to speak those words. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So he said them in his head. I’m not just another man. I’m a man who loves you.
Certainty blended with mercy and with deep sadness. For one moment, he allowed his cheek to brush her hair. I love you so much.