THIRTY-TWO

STUTTGART, GERMANY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1938

The silver light of dawn turned golden, and Peter sat up from his makeshift bed of blanket and pillow on the floor of the Herzogs’ guest room.

Soft breathing came from above him on the bed. Good. Evelyn had slept.

Sleeping in the same room as her felt strange, but for the sake of August and Renate Herzog, they were John and Evelyn Williamson, returning from their honeymoon in the Black Forest. Peter was using a false name so the Herzogs could honestly say they’d never met Peter Lang if the Gestapo asked questions.

Peter rubbed at his bruised ribs over his bruised heart. Three boyfriends had hurt Evelyn. No wonder she wanted nothing to do with men. Now that Peter had slapped her and told her to get in the trunk, he’d never stand a chance with her.

If Peter loved her, he’d let her be, even if it meant denying his feelings permanently.

None of that would matter if they couldn’t get to France. He pushed aside the blanket. In his shirt, trousers, and stocking feet, he crawled to his rucksack and pulled out his map of western Germany. Quietly, he spread it on the floor and sat cross-legged before it.

After General Richter’s visit, Peter had spent hours in the university library, studying topographical maps of the border region and making notes. Back in his apartment, he’d marked up his own maps.

Of course, none of the maps told him the most crucial information—where German and French troops were posted.

“Good morning.” Evelyn sat on the edge of the bed in her white blouse and gray skirt, her hair mussed and begging for his fingers to muss it even more.

Peter managed a brotherly smile. “Good morning.”

“Your map?” She sat beside him on the floor with her legs folded to the side.

“Now’s a good time to discuss this,” he said in a low voice. “While the house is quiet.”

Evelyn studied the map. “The red circles are where you want to cross?”

“Yes. We can’t cross by car. We’d never make it past the customs inspection. Our names are certainly on some list. We have two options—crossing the Rhine in the Black Forest region or crossing through the Pfälzerwald in the Palatinate Range. Can you swim?”

“Not well.”

“Then we’ll go through the Pfälzerwald. This looks like a good spot—not many villages on the German side, but several on the French side. It’s hilly and wooded, so I doubt the German defenses will be strong—little chance the French would attack there.”

Evelyn traced the border with her slim finger. “What about French defenses? The Maginot Line covers the entire border.”

“I’m not worried about that. They’d stop us before shooting. Since we’re wearing civilian clothes and you’re a woman, we won’t look threatening. Then we tell our story—American newlyweds, we got lost hiking, you lost your passport, so sorry.”

Her finger tapped on the red circle. “How close can we get?”

“We’ll find out when we get there. The maps don’t show many roads close to the border, but we’ll get as close as we can. Looks like we’ll have anywhere from ten to twenty-five miles to hike.”

She frowned at the map. She’d been quiet on the ride to Stuttgart. Then she’d acted perky for the Herzogs, a happy bride clinging to Peter’s arm and beaming at him. Beaming back hadn’t been difficult.

Now she was quiet again.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I hate this, not being free.”

“I know.” Even in this house, he didn’t feel free. Renate had welcomed them, but August had looked at them with suspicion.

Evelyn folded her arms in her lap, and her shoulders hunched forward. “I never realized how much I depended on the rule of law to protect my freedom. But here there is no law—only the will of the Führer.”

Peter nudged her shoulder. “In a few days, we’ll be in France, savoring freedom and order.”

She gave him a feeble smile. “They go together well.”

“They do.” So did he and Evelyn, but he didn’t dare say it.

She got up to her knees. “When do you want to leave?”

“Right after lunch.” He folded the map. “I want to reach the border area before dark.”

“We should buy more food. There’s a grocery two blocks down.”

Peter slipped the map into his rucksack. “Good idea. I’ll go out while you write your story and call it in.”

“Story?”

“On the pogrom.”

She pushed up to her bare feet and went to the bureau. “I missed the press conferences, the press release.”

“You saw it firsthand.”

In the reflection in the bureau mirror, her face clouded. “I—I can’t write that.”

That would be difficult for her, and he sighed. “Maybe not fully, but you can write some of what you saw and heard.”

Evelyn fluffed her curls. “I can’t call it to London or New York. I’d have to wait for the operator to arrange the call. It can take hours, and it’s expensive. I refuse to stick Renate with that bill.”

“What about the Berlin bureau? Could you call it to them and—wait, no. What if the bureau’s line is tapped?”

“It is. I’m sure of it.” She jabbed bobby pins into her hair. “Renate’s might be tapped too. I’m not making a single call.”

Peter sighed. The sooner they left Germany, the better.

“Kristallnacht,” the headline of the Völkischer Beobachter proclaimed in vicious black letters. Kristallnacht—crystal night, they’d dubbed it for all the broken glass on the sidewalks throughout Germany.

Peter studied the paper as he walked down the street. Over twenty thousand Jewish people had been thrown into concentration camps, and dozens had been killed “resisting arrest.” Now Joseph Goebbels had ordered an end to the violence.

Good, since he was the man who had ordered a start to the violence.

His hands coiled around the paper. He wanted to crumple it up and throw it in the trash, but Evelyn would want to read it.

He tucked the paper under his arm and adjusted the string bag full of apples and more zwiebacks over his shoulder. With the fruit shortage, he couldn’t believe he’d found apples.

Across the street, a sign for a women’s clothing store hung askew. The store’s windows were knocked out, and the interior lay in darkness and disarray.

What had happened to the owner? Was he among the thousands who had been beaten and arrested? Arrested for no crime except being a Jewish man?

They’d join those arrested earlier for the crime of being communists or socialists.

Peter’s stomach heaved, and he walked faster. Not long ago he’d thought that wasn’t a half-bad idea. He’d been totally wrong.

Communists who murdered deserved to be arrested—as did fascists who murdered. But to lock someone up because they disagreed with you? No. Wrong.

His shoes thumped on the pavement. The Nazis wanted to arrest Herr Gold and to kill Evelyn.

What if Peter hadn’t arrived in time at the Golds’? At Evelyn’s? What if Otto and his friends had overpowered Peter? What if the mob had beaten Evelyn to death?

His breath came hard and fast. Thank you, Lord, for being there, for helping me save her.

Peter’s feet stalled and his breath stilled. Was God more present and more powerful on Kristallnacht than he’d been that night at Father’s factory?

Of course not. God never changed. He was always present, always powerful, always good.

“Why?” he whispered and resumed his pace. Why had the Lord saved Evelyn and not his father?

He didn’t know, but he was glad the Lord had used him to save Evelyn and the Golds. He offered up yet another prayer that the Golds would get to Bolivia.

“Peter Lang?” a man called ahead of him.

Peter stopped, muscles tense. He didn’t know anyone in Stuttgart. He struggled to focus his blurry vision on the man while his feet readied to run.

“Peter! It is you.” It was Klaus Metzger, Otto’s best friend, but his grin said he hadn’t heard what Peter had done.

Peter forced himself to relax and grin back. “What are you doing in Stuttgart?”

“My uncle passed away last week. I’m home for the funeral.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Klaus dipped his round chin. “What are you doing in my hometown?”

He scrambled for an excuse. “I’m here for a symposium at the university.”

“Good. Did you have to miss the excitement in Munich too?”

Peter’s smile came at a high price. He gestured to the smashed-up shop he’d passed. “Looks like you had some excitement here as well.”

Klaus let out a high-pitched laugh, then he sobered. “Jawohl. We did. But I missed the Putsch anniversary.”

Peter gave a sympathetic murmur. “When do you return to Munich?”

“I will catch the afternoon train. I don’t want to miss Friday evening at the Hofbräuhaus.” With Otto. Where Klaus would tell Otto he’d seen Peter in Stuttgart—heading west.

“Wish I could be there,” Peter said. “I’ll be back Sunday.”

“See you then.” He snapped up a salute. “Heil, Hitler!”

Peter tipped his hat. He hoped he never had to hear that greeting again. “Auf Wiedersehen.”

He strode down the sidewalk to the Herzog home. Otto would send out the alarm. Peter and Evelyn needed to leave at once.