DIESSEN AM AMMERSEE, GERMANY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1938
Arm in arm, Evelyn and Peter strolled down the street in the picturesque resort town, laughing and talking loudly in English as if American honeymooners. Today that’s what they had to be.
A police officer headed their direction.
Evelyn’s throat seized, and she whirled to the window of a toy store. She pointed to dolls dressed in dirndls and lederhosen. “Look, John. Aren’t they darling?”
Peter leaned his head close to hers. “You know what I always say, Mary. Nothing’s too good for my little wife.”
The policeman passed behind them.
“Oh, Johnny, you’re so sweet. Let’s come back later. I’d like to take these to our hotel.” She tapped the boxes in Peter’s hand.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the policeman meander away, and her breath flowed freely again.
Evelyn and Peter continued, passing charming buildings in whites and pastels, many decorated on the outside in the Bavarian fashion with paintings of shields and folk in native dress. Views of the sparkling Ammersee flashed between the buildings.
The town seemed untouched by the violence. Maybe they didn’t have a large Jewish population.
Evelyn hated to be out in public, but she needed supplies since she didn’t have her rucksack. Their escape would involve hiking, so she’d bought a new rucksack and canteen, a warm dirndl skirt, sweater, thick stockings, and sturdy shoes. They’d also bought hard sausages and boxes of zwieback crackers.
She eyed every person they passed, but no one gave them a second glance.
At the clothing store, Evelyn had changed into her new hiking clothes and Peter had changed into the hiking clothes he’d packed. The second act of the day’s performance required it.
They planned to arrive at Renate Herzog’s house in Stuttgart late at night, saying they’d spent their honeymoon hiking the Black Forest and were too tired to make it all the way back to Munich.
Renate was no fan of the Nazis, but Evelyn didn’t want to endanger her friend with knowledge of the truth.
Peter and Evelyn turned up a side street toward the inn on the outskirts of town where they’d parked the car, out of sight of the main streets.
If only she’d been able to snatch her rucksack from inside her apartment—she’d been so close. Then they could have avoided the risky shopping trip and could have driven all the way to the French border without stopping in Stuttgart.
Her jaw tightened. “They stole everything. Helga and Herr Falk—they’re stealing my clothing, my jewelry, my typewriter.”
Peter sighed. “I know. My apartment and office will be ransacked.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “All your books.”
“My research.” His voice ground out.
“Your research?” She gasped. “It isn’t in your car?”
A shadow passed over his eyes. “It’s in my office at the university. I didn’t have time to get it.”
Evelyn stopped and stared at him. Everything in her wanted to order him to go back and fetch it, but it was too late. “Oh no. What did you lose?”
He gazed over her shoulder toward Munich. “My dissertation, my notes, my logbook. My recordings have been shipped to Harvard, but they’re labeled with randomized numbers. Without the key in the logbook, they’re useless. I have nothing.”
“Oh no.” It was her fault. If he hadn’t had to rescue her, he could have rescued his material. And if she hadn’t been so hungry for stories, he wouldn’t have dug himself so deep into the Nazi Party that he needed to escape. She kept destroying people. First Magda Müller. Now Peter. “I—I’m so sorry.”
Peter’s gaze rushed back to her, and he gave her a little smile. “None of that. We’ve lost a lot, but we have cash, a car, our two brains, and the Lord watching over us. We’ll be fine.”
At the inn, Peter unlocked the car and stashed the boxes in the backseat. Evelyn climbed in the driver’s seat.
Peter slid in beside her, opened the map, and pointed to the main road. “Drive up to here, then I’ll take over. Even without my glasses, I can’t miss the Autobahn. You can take over again when it gets dark.”
Evelyn started the car, pulled onto the street, and gave him a teasing smile, eager to lighten the mood. “What’s the matter, Lang? You don’t like having a dame drive your car?”
“That isn’t it.” He squinted out the window, but he didn’t smile. “We have no idea if the riots are spreading or stopping. We’ll get on the Autobahn west of Munich, but what if they’ve set up roadblocks? What if they’re looking for Jews to arrest? With my blond hair, I won’t be pulled over.”
Evelyn turned onto a wooded lane. “I could lie on the backseat.”
“You’ll need to ride in the trunk.”
She gaped at him. “The trunk!”
“It’s roomy, and it’d only be for—”
“No!” Her stomach tightened like a fist, like Warren’s fist that day in New York, closing around her coat, shoving her into the trunk of his car, locking her in. The dark, the stink of gasoline fumes, the fury of being caged. “The trunk? You’ve got to be kidding. Absolutely not.”
Peter arched his eyebrows. “It’s only for two or three hours.”
“I wouldn’t do it for two minutes.” Her gaze whipped between the road and that man beside her. “You’re crazy if you think you can lock me in the trunk.”
He scrunched up his face and groaned. “Why are you—why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“I will never get in that trunk.” She flung her arm in that direction. “I’ll lie on the floor in the back, with our coats over me.”
“It’s too dangerous. What if they stop us and look back there? Absolutely not.”
Evelyn stomped on the brakes, turned off the car, shoved open her door, and got out. “Good-bye, Mr. Lang. I refuse to go one more mile with you.”
“Evelyn!”
She opened the back door to get her rucksack and purse.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Peter leaned over the seat. “You think you can get there by foot? Alone?”
She could barely see. She threw open boxes and stuffed items in her rucksack. “Yes.”
“Evelyn . . .” His voice softened. “It’s at least a hundred miles to Switzerland. Over the Alps. In November.”
“Better than traveling with a man who thinks I belong in the trunk.” Her voice shook. Broke.
Peter sighed. “All right. Lie on the floor. I’ll cover you up. And we’ll pray—pray hard no one stops us.”
“No.” She yanked the cord on her rucksack to close it.
“Evelyn Brand.” His voice firmed up again. “We need each other. You need this car to get to the border, and I need your eyes. Like it or not, our chances of survival are higher together than apart.”
Evelyn hauled in a breath and met his gaze unfiltered by eyeglasses—the glasses he’d lost fighting for her.
Something earnest and vulnerable swam in the blue of his gaze. “I need to get that list to the FBI, and I need your help.”
Her throat filled and clogged shut. This wasn’t Howard or Clark or Warren. This was Peter Lang, who had sacrificed his research and risked his neck to save her life. “Oh, Peter. I’m an idiot.”
He lifted one shoulder and one corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”
Evelyn dragged her gaze to the trunk, swallowing her fear. “I’ll get in the trunk.”
“No.” He got out of the car, opened the back door on his side, and unbuttoned his black overcoat. “Take off your coat and lie on the floor.”
“No. I’ll get in the trunk.”
On the other side of the car, Peter flung his arms wide, but a touch of amusement played on his lips. “Just this once would you listen to me?”
No more arguing. Evelyn shrugged off her coat and wiggled down between the seats. She placed her rucksack under her head for a pillow.
Peter draped one coat over her feet and one over her head, and he tucked them in beside her. “It doesn’t look bad. I’m glad your coat is gray, not red.”
Evelyn retreated under the heavy wool, her hands clenched under her chin. The door slammed, shaking the car, then Peter climbed in and started the engine.
The car rumbled down the lane, then turned and sped up.
Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut, her mind shut, but it was no use. It was all too much. She wasn’t just an idiot. She was sharp and pointy and hurt the only person in this country who cared about her and wanted to help.
How could she be so thoughtless?
Tears burned over the bridge of her nose and across her cheek.
The Norwood brothers had conspired to trap her in Germany. George Norwood had turned a mob against her. Otto von Albrecht wanted her dead, and he’d never even met her. Herr Falk had stolen everything she owned and kicked her out onto the street, not caring if she lived or died. They all wanted to silence her forever.
“Are you all right back there?” Peter asked.
Evelyn bit her lip. Had she been making noise crying? No, he was just being nice.
“I’m fine.” No, she wasn’t fine. Not at all.
She’d lashed out at Peter for no reason, at least none that he knew of.
The rucksack grew warm and damp beneath her cheek, but she deserved to be uncomfortable.
Howard and Clark had slapped her to subdue her. Peter had done so to protect her. Peter had told her to get in the trunk, not to cage her but to protect her.
A sob gulped out.
“Evelyn?”
She burrowed into the rucksack. “He—he locked me in the trunk.”
“What? No. No, I didn’t.”
“Warren.” Her voice cracked. “Howard and Clark slapped me to shut me up, to put me in my place. Warren—he locked me in his trunk.”
“Who—who’s Warren? The others?”
“Old boyfriends.” She tugged off her glove and swiped at her slimy nose with the back of her hand. “I dated Warren when I was working in New York. One evening he came to take me out to dinner—only he had a surprise. He wanted to take me away for a weekend in Connecticut. Except I had an article due on Monday, so I declined.”
Where on earth had she stashed her handkerchief? Her hands were as damp as her face now. “Warren was livid. He opened the trunk and ordered me to get my bag. I refused. I wasn’t about to lose my job for him. So he said he was going to teach me a lesson. He shoved me into the trunk and drove to Connecticut.”
“What? What was he thinking?”
“He thought I’d be subdued, see the error of my ways, quit my job, and stop pretending to be a man. But oh no. When we arrived, I told the innkeeper to call a cab to take me to the train station. I never saw Warren again.”
“He was a fool.” Peter’s voice was hard and forceful.
“Yes.” She sniffed. “A fool. I won’t be caged. I won’t allow it.”
“Of course not. But I meant he was a fool for wanting to subdue you. Why would anyone want to do that?”
Evelyn’s eyes stretched wide in her dark burrow of satin-lined wool that smelled of Peter, sophisticated yet woodsy.
A man like her father, good and kind. Papa let her be herself. Papa took pride in her spunk and her accomplishments.
How could she have forgotten such men existed?