MUNICH
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1938
Evelyn had never prayed so much in her life. Her heels clunked on the tile in the atrium at the University of Munich—hard, fast, desperate.
Libby said prayer made you stronger. But Evelyn’s muscles quivered, she scrutinized every person, and she had to restrain herself from running to Peter’s office.
Why had her thoughts flown to him first? If the consulate general couldn’t help her, what good could Peter do?
However, she couldn’t discuss this with her German friends. Libby was gone. O’Hara was gone. That left Peter.
She turned down the hallway and passed groups of students, laughing and chatting as if everything were right in the world.
Evelyn entered Peter’s office. There he sat in a white shirt and a navy blue suit vest, his blond head bent over papers. Half the tension left her body.
He looked up, and his eyes widened with surprise, then concern. He pushed back his chair. “Ev—”
“Shh!” She jammed her finger to her lips, shut the door, and dashed behind his desk. She yanked off her overcoat, wrapped it around the telephone, and put the phone on the floor as far from the door as the cord allowed.
She returned to the door and peeked into the hallway. Empty. Good. No one had followed her, and she closed the door again.
Peter joined her, his forehead creased. “What’s going on?” he whispered. “You think my phone—”
“I’m not taking any chances,” she whispered back.
“What’s going on?”
Evelyn fumbled open her purse and pulled out the passport.
Peter took it. “A German passport?”
“Open it.”
While he did so, she pressed her trembling hand to her tumbling stomach. No, the passport hadn’t changed.
Name: Brand, Evelyn Sara. At the top, a large red J had been stamped.
Peter looked up, his face stark and pale. “What is this?”
“Turn the page.”
He flipped to the page with her photo on one side and personal information on the other—“Profession: Correspondent. Place of Birth: Dresden. Date of Birth: 15 January 1912.”
“What is this?” he said.
“I found it in my purse today. My American passport—it’s gone.”
“Gone?”
She nodded to the document. “That’s the photo from my passport. All the information is correct, except my middle name and birthplace. But my Grandpa Brand was born in Dresden.”
Peter stepped closer, mouth agape. “It’s one of the new Jewish passports.”
“They—someone found out I’m three-quarters Jewish, and—and—” She leaned against the wall.
Peter fetched a chair. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
“I’ve never fainted in my life.” But her vision darkened and sparkled, so she sat and slumped forward over her knees.
Peter knelt in front of her and rubbed her upper arms. “Deep breaths, Evie. Deep breaths.”
She did so, in no mood to correct him. She’d never been an Evie. But at that moment, she wasn’t even Evelyn Margaret Brand, citizen of the United States of America.
“Do you have any idea how this happened?” Peter’s voice and touch worked calm into her.
“Helga. My cleaning lady. I’ve caught her snooping, but my landlord refuses to fire her. She must have read my mother’s letter telling me I’m three-quarters Jewish.”
Peter murmured and kept stroking her arms.
Evelyn’s vision began to clear. “The other day—she was in my apartment when I awoke. She said she came early because she thought I was out of town, but I could tell she was lying. When I changed purses yesterday, my passport wasn’t there. I assumed it was in another purse, but I was too rushed to look. I forgot about it.”
“She took it.”
“She must have. Then today. When I woke up, things were out of place. And I found that.” She nodded at the offending document, lying beside Peter’s knee.
“We know how it got there, but not why.”
“The Gestapo.” Evelyn looked up. Peter’s face was too close, but closeness was necessary to speak low. “When they visited, I reminded them I’m an American citizen. If anything happened to me, it’d damage American-German relations. This—this passport changes everything. They can do anything they want to me.”
“No.” He squeezed her arms. “It doesn’t change the fact of your citizenship. If they hurt you, it’d still create an international incident. The Gestapo knows that.”
More than anything, she wanted to believe. But . . . “That’s an official document. Look at all the stamps. Look how close the signature is to my own. Helga didn’t make it. Someone in power did. Someone who researched my background. Someone who’s out to get me.”
Peter tucked in his lips, and his eyebrows bunched together. He didn’t argue.
“All those antisemitic laws? Peter, they apply to me now.” Her hands twisted into a knot. “Things are getting worse. Did you hear what they did last week to the Polish Jews living in Germany? Rounded them up—fifteen thousand of them—only one suitcase each. And they pushed them over the border into Poland at gunpoint. Actually pushed them. But Poland doesn’t want them either. They’re stuck in horrid refugee camps on the border.”
“I heard.” Peter’s frown deepened.
Evelyn’s breath came harder. “I need to leave now. But I can’t. Not with that passport. I—I’m trapped.”
“Shh. We’ll take care of this. Let’s head to the consulate gen—”
“That’s the first place I went. They turned me away.” Her fingers hurt from the twisting. “They think I’m lying. They think I’m one of the thousands of German Jews trying to escape.”
“But your accent. You sound American.” He looked so earnest, so outraged.
For the first time all day, she almost wanted to smile. “No offense to your research, but an accent is no proof of citizenship.”
Peter lowered his head and let out a wry chuckle. “No offense taken.”
“I—I showed them my press pass, but that means nothing. The ANS can hire people of any nationality.”
“Let’s start over.” Peter raised his head, his gaze strong and assured. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the consulate general. Speak to a different clerk. Say nothing about the German passport. Simply say you lost your American passport. They’ll tell you what to do. Passports are lost or stolen every day. That’s why we have consulates.”
“That’s true.” Evelyn’s eyes stretched wide. “Why didn’t I think of that? Why did I—”
“So, tomorrow morning—”
“Bother. I can’t.” She scrunched up her face. “Tomorrow and the next day—it’s the anniversary of the Nazi Putsch. Huge holiday. I have to report on it. And the consulate general will be closed.”
“That’s right. Okay. Thursday morning we’ll take care of it. First thing.”
“We?” Evelyn leaned back a bit. “You don’t need to come. You shouldn’t. We shouldn’t be seen together. Even coming here today wasn’t wise.”
Peter released her arms and rested his hands on his knees. His gaze grew in quiet power. “I’ll meet you there. We won’t be seen together on the streets.”
“But—”
“Not this time.” He leaned forward. “This isn’t the time to prove how independent you are. You’re in danger. You need to get out of this country as soon as possible, but first you need a passport.”
“Yes, but—”
“Like it or not, a male voice has more authority. As a fellow American, I’ll lend your case some authenticity. And if they give you grief, I have a friend in the passport office in the US Embassy in Berlin. We’ll call him right then, and things will happen.”
Evelyn stared at her hands, which no longer trembled. If she hadn’t wanted Peter’s help, why had she come to him? Hadn’t he come up with good ideas? And if he accompanied her, wouldn’t he have the same calming effect he was having right now? “You’re right. Please come. I’d appreciate it.”
“Thanks.” Peter sighed. “Listen, you might want to make plans to leave in a hurry. I have.”
“You have?”
He shifted his glasses higher on that crooked nose. “After the general visited.”
He’d told her about that in a note. How long had it been since she’d seen him? She’d . . . missed him.
Peter tilted his head toward his desk. “I keep things in my attaché case, more things in my rucksack at home. Map, compass, pocketknife, cash, a change of clothes. Things like that.”
“That’s a good idea.” But where could she go? And how could she get away without her passport?
“It’s going to be all right.” Peter set his hands on hers and squeezed. “If you need help, if you need to escape, you call me, day or night. Understood?”
“Thank you.” She had no intention of ripping him from his teaching and research, but his offer was exceptionally generous. “I—I should go now.”
“I’ll get your coat.” He stood and went behind his desk.
Evelyn put the passport back in her purse. Not carrying papers was illegal, so the fake passport was better than nothing.
She rose to her feet. She felt calmer, less anxious.
Something inside her squirmed at how she’d leaned on Peter, how he’d made her feel better.
She could almost hear Libby comforting her after the Gestapo’s visit. “God didn’t create us to be completely independent, but interdependent. That’s why he gave us friends.”
Evelyn had prayed for help, and God had given her a friend. God had given her strength and calm and help—through that friend.
Peter returned with her coat.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. “Thank you.”
“You—you’re welcome.” His hand settled on her waist.
She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, grabbed her coat, and whirled out the door before she did something she’d regret for the rest of her life.
However short that might be.