Evelyn pressed back in a cold stony doorway. Kitty-corner across the intersection to her right, a light shone from her apartment, where Herr Falk and Helga were looting Evelyn’s possessions.
“They have the nerve to call the Jews thieves,” she muttered.
She hugged herself, shivering. In the distance came sounds of sirens and shouts and glass breaking.
She’d always prided herself on her ability to handle anything on her own. But she couldn’t handle this.
“Lord, I need help.” Shielded in the doorway, she’d mulled her pitiful options. Of all the people she knew in Munich—reporters and artists and socialites and musicians—Peter was the one she could depend on.
He’d take her in tonight. Tomorrow, if this insanity had stopped, he’d accompany her to the consulate general. Then she’d find an apartment or hotel where she could stay while waiting for her new passport.
First, she had to leave the false security of the dark doorway and brave the half-mile walk to Peter’s place.
Two headlights approached, and she pressed back as far as possible.
The car parked in front of her former apartment building, and a shadowy figure emerged and entered her building—without turning off the car’s engine or headlights.
She didn’t like the looks of that. Herr Falk must have called the Gestapo.
She pushed away from the building and turned left. Despite shaking legs, she walked at a crisp pace.
The shouts grew louder as she neared the intersection, and she hugged the building as she turned the corner.
Evelyn gasped and halted. Broken glass glinted on the sidewalk, on the street, as if the stars themselves had fallen.
A block away, dozens of people wielded torches and sticks, smashing windows, tossing out merchandise. Dragging people into the street. Beating them.
A moan rose in her throat. She had to find another route.
“You there!” A man brandished a torch in her direction. “Show me your papers!”
No! All she had was that passport stamped with a crimson J. Running away would be stupid, but standing still would mean a beating. Or worse.
Evelyn eased back, eyeing the mob, groping the wall beside her until at last it gave way. The corner—she turned and bolted back down the street where she’d hidden in the doorway.
Voices roared behind her. “Stop her! She’s a Jew!”
Her legs flew, and her lungs screamed. Stupid skirt. Stupid pumps. Slowing her down. A map of the neighborhood ran through her mind. How could she get away? Hide? Get to Peter’s?
She crossed her former street and kept running. Two blocks ahead of her, a car pulled into an intersection and squealed to a stop.
A man climbed out of the car and peered at her. “Evelyn Brand?” he called with a German accent, an accusing tone.
She stumbled to a stop.
“It’s her! Get her!” The man swung his arm overhead, and the car doors flew open.
Evelyn stifled a cry. A mob behind her, hunters before her, a Gestapo car in front of her apartment to her left. She had to go right.
She wheeled back to her former street, rounded the corner, and ran in the opposite direction of her apartment.
Shouts and footsteps gained on her.
“Lord!” she cried. “Lord!”
Someone grabbed her arm. “It’s me! Peter!”
A cry tumbled out, and she spun around.
Peter stood before her, hatless, with a fearsome expression. “Duck. I’ll pretend to slap you. Then I’ll drag you off. Play along.”
“What?” Behind him, men pounded around the corner with torches.
Pain exploded in her left cheek, and she screamed and cradled that cheek.
Peter stared at her, mouth agape. “You were supposed to duck.”
He’d slapped her, and fury welled inside. “How could you? I trusted you.”
His jaw jutted forward, and he grabbed her wrist and turned to the crowd. “This one’s mine. It’s personal. Leave her to me.”
“What?” She flailed her arm, but his grip clamped like a handcuff.
The mob stopped, and men laughed. “She’s all yours.”
Peter marched past them, jerking her arm. “Leave her to me. I’ll take care of her.”
“Let me go!” She lurched behind him, voice shaking, half in anger, half in grief. “Let me go!”
The crowd jeered as they passed, shoving torches toward her, calling her vile names.
Peter . . . he was rescuing her from them. Play along, he’d said.
Play along, she would. She shook her arm for show, but her feet followed willingly. “Let go of me!”
“Never! I’ll never let you go.” His voice fierce, his words calming.
He jogged toward her old apartment, toward that suspicious car—his car!
Then he stopped, and she barreled into him from behind.
“Otto,” he said in a low voice.
A man stood silhouetted in the headlights. “I don’t like traitors.” The man from the car who’d called her name.
Peter released Evelyn’s arm. “And I don’t like murderers.” He charged forward and swung his fist.
Otto ducked and slugged Peter in the ribs.
“Peter!” Evelyn cried.
He drove a fist up under Otto’s chin. “Evie! Get in the car! Drive away!”
“What? No!” She couldn’t leave him there.
“Get in the car! Drive away!” Peter took a punch square in the face.
Footsteps thumped on the pavement from where Otto’s car had parked. Peter might be able to fend off Otto, but not three or four men. They’d kill him.
Peter’s fist thudded into Otto’s cheek, and Otto jabbed Peter in the gut.
Evelyn had to help. She raised her knee as far as her skirt allowed, and she drove her foot hard into the side of Otto’s knee.
He yelled and collapsed to the side.
“Get in the car!” Peter slammed both fists down on the back of Otto’s head, and the man dropped to the pavement.
Evelyn threw open the passenger door, jumped in, and slid behind the wheel. Thank goodness he’d left the engine running. “Peter! Get in!”
He scrambled in. Evelyn threw the car into reverse and stomped the gas pedal before he could shut his door.
Three men ran up, shouting, cursing.
Evelyn wrenched the steering wheel around, and the car spun backward, tires squealing.
Peter cried out and hung on.
When she faced away from the attackers and the mob, Evelyn cranked the gear shift and punched the accelerator. The engine roared, and the car tore down the street.
Peter wrestled his door shut. “You okay?”
“Ye-yes.” Evelyn careened around a corner and glanced in the rearview mirror. “What on earth?”
“They have orders to kill you.”
“Me?”
“They know about the passport, think you’re a German Jew, think you’re a spy. They have orders.”
“Oh my goodness.” Evelyn wheeled around the corner, the tires screaming in protest, her mind aching in disbelief. They wanted her dead.
“How?” Peter clutched at his head. “How did they figure out I’d lied to them? So fast? Impossible!”
They’d lost the mob, and Evelyn let out a moan.
“You’re all right, Evie. You’ll be all right.”
“I’m not . . .” How could she argue with him about her name after he’d saved her life? “You—you came for me.”
“Thank goodness. Thank goodness he called. Thank you, Lord.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. She just kept driving. Anywhere as long as it was away.
Peter’s head sank back on the seatback. “When I went to your apartment and your landlord said he’d kicked you out . . . Then that mob—when I saw them chasing you . . .”
Evelyn shuddered and fought to keep her eyes from slamming shut—she had to watch the road. “I have never been so thankful to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry I slapped you. I didn’t mean to. I meant for you to duck.”
Her cheek stung, but she shoved back the outrage and the memories. Peter wasn’t Howard or Clark or Warren. She forced the truth into her head. He’d done it to protect her. Not to hurt her. Not to silence her.
“Can you forgive me?” His voice sounded ragged.
He needed to see it, so she looked him in the eye. “All forgiven.”
“Thank you.” Dark rivulets ran from his nose.
“You’re bleeding!” Evelyn shoved her purse to him. “There’s a handkerchief inside.”
“I have one.”
Something was wrong with his face, but what? “Your nose—did he break it?”
“Maybe. I’ll find out.” He pressed his handkerchief to his nose and winced.
Evelyn stopped at an intersection. “Where to?”
Peter squinted at a street sign on a building. “What does that say?”
That was what was wrong with his face. “Your glasses. Where are they?”
“I lost them in the fight. You’ll have to drive.”
“Of—of course. To your place?”
“No.” Peter settled in his seat. “Out of Munich. Out of Germany.”
“What? We can’t.”
“We have to. They want you dead. Now they want me dead.” He knifed his hand down the road. “Drive.”
Evelyn’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the only thing she had in the world.
And it was. That and her purse and a bleeding friend.
And the Lord. She let out a long breath.
Yes, she had the Lord. She pressed the gas pedal.