Peter tucked in fresh bedsheets for the Golds.
Frau Gold slipped on a clean pillowcase. “You shouldn’t have to sleep on your sofa.”
“It’s only for a night or two.” Peter spread out a quilt. “If it still isn’t safe for you to travel by Saturday, I’ll drive you to the French border.”
The phone rang.
Could it be Evelyn? To be safe, Peter motioned for the Golds to be quiet and shut the bedroom door before answering the phone. “Hallo?”
“Peter, it is Otto.”
Peter put on a groggy voice. “What on earth? Waking me again?”
“This time you must join us. Your honor is at stake. You have been betrayed.”
“Betrayed?” Still standing, Peter gripped the back of his desk chair. “By whom?”
“You know a woman named Evelyn Brand.”
Clamminess crept down Peter’s arms. “Ja. She is an American reporter. I feed her good stories about Germany.”
Otto barked out a laugh. “She’s played you for a fool. She prints garbage about us. We think she’s been spying on you. She writes about things only Party insiders know.”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and fought to retain control. “I—”
“It gets worse. She is not an American. She was born in Germany—and she’s a Jew.” He spat out the last word.
How did Otto know? “That—that can’t be. She grew up in America. She has an American accent.”
“She has Jewish papers.”
Only the Gestapo knew that, and Peter shuddered. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice came out choked.
“She lied to you. Tonight she will pay.”
Peter frantically looked around, but for what? Lord, help!
“We have orders to rough her up,” Otto said. “If she dies in the process, so be it.”
He clenched the chair back. God, help. Lead them astray.
“I have her address. Meet us at the corner of Leopoldstrasse and Herzogstrasse in fifteen minutes.”
“She isn’t there,” Peter blurted out.
“What do you mean? Where is she?”
Peter rubbed the heel of his hand on his forehead. She was probably reporting on some ceremony, but Otto might know where it was and intercept her on the way home. “She’s staying at a friend’s. The Gestapo visited her recently, and it scared her.”
“As it should. If they’d known she was Jewish, they would have already stopped her lies. But it ends tonight. Where is she?”
Peter grimaced. “I don’t know the address. But my friend knows. I’ll call him.”
“Good. We’ll meet at your place in—”
“No.” He had to keep them far away from Evelyn and the Golds. “She—yes, she said it was close to the main train station. Gather your friends. Meet me at the station.”
“Jawohl. Tomorrow there will be one less scheming Jew in the world.”
Peter waited for Otto to hang up, then dialed Evelyn’s number. “Answer, answer.”
It kept ringing and ringing.
His breath puffed like a bellows. He could see the mob descending on his father, the fists, the sticks, the blood. He could hear his father’s cries.
Peter slammed down the phone. No! He would not be powerless again.
Where was she? Where was that ceremony? Munich was a big city.
“George!” He’d know. George might harbor a grudge against Evelyn, but he wouldn’t want harm to come to her. Besides, who else could Peter call? Who else would know?
He dialed the Regina Palace Hotel, and they connected him to George’s room.
“George Norwood here.”
“It’s Peter. Good, you’re back.”
“I just finished reporting on a ceremony. What’s wrong?” Worry darkened his voice.
“It’s Evelyn Brand. She’s in trouble. Look, I know you don’t like her, but I know you wouldn’t want to see her harmed. I need to find her before Otto and his friends do. They have orders to kill her.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The ceremony—where was it? Did you see her there?”
“At—at the Odeonsplatz. Yes, I saw her.”
“Good.” A nice distance from the train station. “She must be on her way home. I’ll intercept her. At least I bought her some time.”
“Bought her time? What do you mean?”
“I told Otto she was staying with a friend. Told them to meet me at the main train station. It’ll take them time to get there, even longer to realize I lied to them, then to cross town to her apartment. I’ll get there first.”
“Wait! Let me. Let me make it up to her. Let me help. I’ll get a cab, bring her to the hotel. She’ll be safer here than at your place. Otto will look for you there after he figures it out.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you. But I’m closer, can get there faster.” He hung up.
Peter flung open the bedroom door.
Herr and Frau Gold stared at him. “What’s going on?” Herr Gold asked.
“The Nazis have orders to kill Fräulein Brand. They know. They know she’s Jewish.”
Herr Gold pulled his wife close. “Oh no.”
Peter pulled on his suit jacket. “I’m going out to find her, save her, bring her . . .”
He paused with his fingers on a jacket button. Oh no. George was right. In about an hour, Otto would realize Peter had lied. He knew about the list of American Nazi sympathizers. He’d come to Peter’s apartment.
He’d be thirsting for blood.
Peter had led the Golds from one danger to another, and he slowly turned to them. “You won’t be safe here. I must leave Munich tonight.”
Frau Gold clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Now, now.” Herr Gold patted her shoulder. “We will find a place.”
Peter could take them along—but no. He couldn’t drag them on his rescue mission, not with mobs on the streets. But where could he take them? Where would they be safe? “The Schreibers.”
“Pardon?” Herr Gold asked.
“Professor Johannes Schreiber. I study under him. He and his wife are good people. They will hide you. I’ll take you on the way to Evelyn’s. It’s close.”
He tossed up a quick prayer that the Schreibers would be willing and courageous.
After everyone put on coats and hats, Herr Gold picked up the suitcases, and Peter slung on his rucksack and picked up the trunk.
He’d never come back. His gaze landed on his desk, his attaché case full of graded papers for tomorrow’s class. A class he wouldn’t teach.
A groan built in his chest, but this was no time for hesitation.
Peter and the Golds loaded the car, the Golds lay low in the backseat, and Peter drove a few blocks to the Schreibers’ home. The neighborhood slept, unaware of the violence erupting in other parts of the city.
At the professor’s home, Peter scanned the street, then rushed the Golds up the front steps and pounded on the front door.
In a few minutes, Professor Schreiber opened the door in a dressing gown, his hair mussed. “Was ist los? Peter?”
“May we come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Peter ushered his friends inside and shut the door. “Please pardon me for waking you, for barging into your home. This is an emergency.”
The professor’s eyes stretched wide as he took in his surprise visitors. “What is going on?”
Frau Schreiber appeared on the stairs, also in a dressing gown.
Peter removed his hat and bowed his head to her. “Please forgive me, Frau Schreiber. These are my friends, Herr and Frau Gold. You wouldn’t know, but a pogrom is raging around the city. The Nazis are burning synagogues, smashing up stores, and beating people, killing people.”
“Oh no.” Horror and compassion raced through Professor Schreiber’s eyes, and he turned to the Golds. “And you are—”
“Jewish.” Herr Gold raised his chin in pride and defiance. “We are Jewish.”
Professor Schreiber clutched the neck of his dressing gown. “I am—so sorry this is happening to you.”
Time was ticking, and Evelyn was in danger. “May I ask a huge favor? The Nazis have orders to kill my friend Evelyn Brand. She’s an American correspondent, and she’s Jewish too. I need to find her and rescue her. I brought the Golds to my apartment, but they will not be safe there.”
“Why not?” Frau Schreiber padded across the foyer in her slippers.
Peter juggled his words, aiming for clarity and speed and safety. “When the Nazis realize I rescued Fräulein Brand, they will come after me. I must leave town tonight. If I can, I’ll return and take the Golds with me. But if I can’t . . . well, the Gestapo will ransack my apartment. The Golds need someplace safe. You were the first people I thought of.”
Frau Schreiber took her husband’s arm. “Johannes, we must.”
“We have exit visas, transit visas for France, and entry visas for Bolivia,” Herr Gold said. “We would not stay long.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “They just need someplace to hide until the violence blows over. But I won’t lie. It would be dangerous for you.”
“Do not think of it.” The professor set his hand on Peter’s shoulder, and his eyes reddened. “Save Fräulein Brand. Your friends will be safe with us. If you do not return by morning, I will help them get to the border.”
“Thank you.” Peter shook his mentor’s hand with deep gratitude.
The professor frowned. “The Gestapo will ransack your office too.”
“Yes.” The realization thudded like a rock in his stomach. His dissertation. His research logbook. His notes. Years of work. Tomorrow morning, it would all be gone.
“Herr Lang?” Herr Gold gave him a concerned look. “Do you have second thoughts?”
“Nein, my friend.” Peter strode out the door to fetch the Golds’ luggage. “None at all.”