TWENTY-SEVEN

MUNICH
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1938

Peter awoke in his dark bedroom. What was that noise? The phone?

He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. Who would call in the middle of the night?

Evelyn!

He threw off his bedclothes and stumbled into the living room in the moonlight.

Phone. Phone. Where was the phone? He’d told her to call any time of the day or night.

Peter grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hallo, Peter.”

“Otto?” Peter sank into his desk chair. He could hear excited voices in the background. Otto and his buddies were probably drinking themselves under the table after the Putsch anniversary dinner. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Ten after midnight. Do you want to have some fun?”

“I want to go back to bed. I’m teaching tomorrow morning—this morning.”

“You do not want to waste this night sleeping. Tonight is for revenge. Revenge for the death of Ernst vom Rath.”

The man had died, and the haze of sleep evaporated. Revenge? On the Jews. Oh, Lord, no.

“It’s the moment we’ve been waiting for,” Otto said. “We have orders from Goebbels to smash up Jewish businesses, burn synagogues, and arrest twenty thousand Jewish men throughout the Reich.”

Peter was too horrified to know what to say. “A—a pogrom.”

Otto laughed. “Jawohl. A good old-fashioned pogrom. It’s supposed to look spontaneous, so we’re in plain clothes, not uniform. We’re not allowed to loot, and we’re not to touch women or foreign Jews, but we’ll still have fun.”

Peter ran his hand into his hair. “Wow.”

“Join us. They’re torching the synagogue on Herzog-Rudolf Strasse. Meet us there.”

“I—I can’t.”

“Why not?” Otto’s voice hardened.

Peter glanced around as if his desk would furnish an excuse. “I—if word gets to America that I was involved, it—it would damage my reputation there. My mission for the Party.”

“You think so?”

“I’m certain. I could ask your father if you—”

“No. We mustn’t wake him.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t like that. Too bad. Another time.”

Otto groaned. “What a shame.”

Peter hung up. “Lord, now what?”

Evelyn—he had to warn her! And Herr Gold. The rabbi. The people he’d worked with in June when the main synagogue was demolished. “Lord, protect them. Show me what to do.”

First, Evelyn. He dialed her number. He’d warn her to stay inside. She was a woman. The orders were to leave women alone. She’d be safe.

The phone kept ringing. “Come on, come on. Pick up.”

Ten rings. Twenty. Where was she at ten after midnight?

George had mentioned a midnight ceremony—maybe she was reporting on it too.

He hung up. “Lord, I can’t help her. Keep her safe.”

Herr Gold. His café. Had the ownership transferred to his Aryan brother-in-law yet? Would the Nazis even care? Herr and Frau Gold lived above the café. They were in danger.

Peter dashed to his bedroom, stripped off his pajamas, and dressed.

What could he do? Fend off a mob? No, but if he arrived before the mob, he could hide the Golds in his apartment. The couple had just received their exit visas—so close to escaping.

Shirt, trousers, socks, the shoes with the list under the insole. The minimum.

But what if someone recognized him or his car?

Peter’s breath slowed and stopped. He’d have to flee the country. He needed to dress for flight.

Suit vest, V-neck sweater, necktie stuffed in his pocket, suit jacket, overcoat with gloves in the pockets, glasses, hat. At the door he grabbed his rucksack.

He gave the apartment one last sweep. Anything else? No. He needed to leave.

Peter climbed into his Opel Admiral, tossed the rucksack in the back, and drove away. The street was silent, but the sky was brighter than usual for an overcast night, even with a nearly full moon.

He turned the corner. A reddish glow pulsed between buildings, and a column of silver smoke marred the sky.

Peter gripped the steering wheel. The Nazis had pledged to bring order, and they were burning and smashing and arresting innocent men. “It’s chaos. Chaos.”

He turned onto the deserted Gärtnerplatz. A star of David had been painted on the café’s window, and Peter grimaced. It was only a matter of time.

On the side street, he parked by the door to the apartments upstairs. But there were three stories above ground level—which apartment was the Golds’?

“Lord, show me the way.” The doorway wasn’t locked, and he climbed the stairs. Names on the doors, thank goodness. The apartment directly over the café said “Gold.”

“Herr Gold? It’s Peter Lang.” He knocked softly so as not to rouse the neighbors or their slumbering antisemitism. If he kept knocking long enough . . .

Herr Gold opened the door, fully dressed, his face grim.

Peter sighed. “You’ve heard.”

“You must leave, Herr Lang. They will come soon and destroy my café and arrest me.”

Peter ducked inside and shut the door. “We can’t let them arrest you. You have exit visas.”

Frau Gold sat in the golden glow of a single lamp. “It isn’t meant to be.”

“Yes, it is. I’ll take you to my apartment. No one will look for you there. You can stay until it quiets down and you can travel.”

She stared at luggage by the door, and her face puckered. “It will never quiet down.”

“Then I’ll drive you to the border.” He gestured to the luggage. “Come on, you’re already packed. Anything else you need?”

A light flickered in Herr Gold’s brown eyes. “That might work.”

“It’s worth a try. Stay here, and you’ll go to jail. Come with me, and you have a chance.”

“Yes, yes. Miriam—quick, get what you need.”

She shook her head. “It’s no use, Jakob.”

Herr Gold cupped his wife’s chin in his hand. “It’s our only chance. Come, Liebchen.”

“My car’s the black Opel. I’ll start loading.” Peter hefted up the trunk, maneuvered it downstairs, and set it in the trunk of his car.

Movement on the plaza caught his eye. People—but how many?

His stomach lurched, and he took the stairs two at a time. “Hurry! They’re coming.”

Herr and Frau Gold were scrambling into their coats.

Peter picked up two suitcases. “Anything else?”

“My purse!” Frau Gold grabbed it, then stopped and looked around the apartment.

“Come, Liebchen.” Herr Gold took her hand. “There is nothing here for us anymore.”

She set her chin and followed her husband.

Peter trotted down to the car and flung open the back door. “Get in. Get down.”

In the light of the streetlamps, two dozen men approached, yelling and bearing torches.

Peter tossed the suitcases onto the passenger seat, loped around the car, jumped in, and started the car. “Come on. Come on.”

The engine revved, and Peter pulled into the roundabout just far enough to turn around.

A man pointed to him and called out. Others hurled rocks through the café window and tossed in torches.

A sob rose from the backseat—Frau Gold.

“My café,” Herr Gold said. “My beautiful café.”

Peter cranked the car into a U-turn and tore down the street. His jaw clenched, and his eyes burned. “Justice! Mercy! Where are they, Lord?”

After the midnight swearing-in ceremony of new SS officers at the Feldherrnhalle, Evelyn stifled a yawn, once again jammed in a cab with Cal and Bert and Tony. “Why do so many Nazi festivities have to be in the middle of the night?”

“Because they’re ghouls.” Cal made a monster-like face. “Who-oo-oo.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. But the ceremony had indeed felt ghoulish. The men in black, the red flags, the searchlights, the sacred-to-the-Nazis blood flag—soaked in the blood of the Putsch martyrs. And the head ghoul himself—Hitler.

“Do you smell smoke?” Tony rolled down the cab window. “There’s a red glow over there.”

“On this side too,” Bert said. “Something’s burning.”

The driver slammed on his brakes, and Evelyn braced herself on the seatback.

A crowd of men jogged in front of the cab, carrying sticks.

“Driver, wait.” Tony leaned out the window. “What’s going on, meine Herren?”

A burly fellow came closer, grinning. “We’re getting back at those murderous Jews. All over town, all over the Reich.”

Evelyn’s chest squeezed, and she exchanged a glance with Cal.

Cal leaned over Tony. “Those fires—are they—”

“Ja!” The man slapped his stick into his palm. “Jewish shops, synagogues. It’s time they pay. No more thieving and cheating and murdering.”

“Oh no,” Evelyn whispered. They’d already destroyed the main synagogue. Now the others too? What about Herr Gold’s café? The stores and restaurants—the few that remained in Jewish hands?

Tony whipped out some Reichsmarks and flung them over to the driver. “I’m getting out here, boys. It’s story time.”

Cal and Bert scrambled to follow.

For the first time ever, Evelyn shrank back from a story. If she got separated from the others, if anyone asked to see her papers . . . “You know what, fellows? I’d better go home.”

Bert plopped his hat on his head and grinned at her. “Yeah, a mob is no place for a dame.”

Any other day, she’d argue. Ignoring Bert, she repeated her address to the driver.

Cal poked his head back inside, concern on his face. “Take care, Brandy. Stay inside and stay safe.”

“Thanks.”

The doors slammed, leaving her alone in the backseat, and the cab drove away.

Evelyn clutched her bulging purse in her lap, and it crinkled. After her talk with Peter at his office, she’d picked open the purse lining and stuffed it with her most damning story notes, Reichsmarks, and francs left from her time in Paris.

What had she just done? A story. A big story, and she was running away from it. If she didn’t report on this violence because she felt unsafe as a woman, she’d undo all her hard work.

She gritted her teeth. She couldn’t do that. Maybe she could dump the passport in her apartment and go back out.

Alone? Maybe she could call Peter. The thought of the big blond man at her side calmed her. But did she really want to wake him at one o’clock in the morning?

Evelyn groaned and rested her head back on the seat. Lord, what should I do? Stay home or go out? Call Peter or not?

The cab stopped beside her building. Some men walked down the other side of the street toward her.

Evelyn paid the driver, not waiting for change, and she rushed into her building and shut the door.

Voices came from upstairs, near her apartment.

Evelyn climbed the stairs. Not near her apartment—in her apartment.

Herr Falk, her landlord, rummaged through her kitchen cabinet, and Helga the cleaning lady went through Evelyn’s desk drawers.

Evelyn cried out. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Herr Falk stomped to her in the doorway, his round face red. “You lied to me! How dare you? I don’t rent to Jews.”

Her heart seized, and she took a step back from the large man. “I—I’m a Christian.”

Helga joined him and spat at Evelyn. “Lying Jew. You said you were an American, but you’re not. I saw your passport.”

Evelyn swiped spittle off her chin and glared at Helga. “The only way you could have seen that false passport is when you switched it. You did it. You sneaky, lying—”

Helga shoved her into the hallway. “Jewish swine!”

“She stole my passport,” Evelyn said to her landlord. “She switched it—”

“No more lies.” Herr Falk made a circular motion with his beefy arm. “You’re evicted.”

Evelyn’s heart beat hard and fast. She had to talk him down. She forced her voice lower, forced the fury out of her expression. “Very well, mein Herr. Tomorrow morning I’ll look for a new apartment.”

“Nein! You’re not stepping another filthy foot on my property.”

She moved to edge past him. “I—I need to pack.”

He stepped in her way. “I said, you’re not stepping foot on my property again.”

Evelyn glanced past him to her typewriter, her clothing, her papers, her books. “But that—that’s my property.”

Helga smirked at her. “The Gestapo will confiscate it—and the papers you stole.”

The rucksack rested just inside the door, right beside Herr Falk’s leg. She reached for it.

He shoved her, and she fell to her backside.

“Get out! Before I have you arrested for trespassing—or spying.”

Evelyn scrambled to her feet. Empty-handed. A voice in her head roared, “Get out! Get out now!”

She turned and ran down the stairs and out into the cold night.

“Lord, help me.” She crossed her arms over her middle. She had nothing but her purse. The clothes on her back. A false and deadly passport.

“Now what?” she whispered. Small. Alone. Vulnerable.

And hunted.