MONDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1938
Peter’s breath puffed silver-white as he followed Evelyn over the shoulder of yet another wooded hill in the moonlight. In the past two and a half nights of hiking, how far had they come? Had they stayed on course?
The villages they’d passed were too small for his map, and they’d skirted around them from too far a distance to read signs that might orient them.
Evelyn held back a low-hanging branch for Peter. She was doing so well. She kept a solid pace and never griped about sore feet or the cold or fatigue. Since Peter suffered from all three, she surely did as well.
Several times on the journey, they’d heard suspicious sounds—people, animals, who knew? Each time, they’d taken cover and hunkered under the blanket until the sounds passed.
Peter stepped over a little ravine. How long would it take to reach France? He’d planned for four nights and they were rationing their food to last six, but what if it took longer? With a winding route through rugged terrain, picking their way in the moonlight, they only covered a few miles each night.
The moon was deserting them as an ally. Each night it rose about an hour later, and each night a fraction more had been shaved away. In about a week, it would rise too close to sunrise to permit sufficient hiking time. Then they’d have to choose between the dangers of hiking in full dark—or full light.
“Break?” Evelyn asked.
Peter angled his wristwatch toward the faint moonlight—one thirty. They’d been hiking for two hours. “Yes, it’s time.”
“This is a good spot.” A cleft between hills, well wooded.
Peter sank behind a bank of ferns. His feet screamed to be released from his shoes, but if he listened to them, he’d never get his shoes back on again.
He’d moved the list of American Nazi sympathizers from his shoe to his shirt pocket in case he stepped in a stream. If the Nazis caught him, he was dead, whether or not they found the list.
Evelyn pulled an apple from her rucksack.
Peter sliced it with his Swiss Army knife and gave her half. “Lord, we thank thee for thy bounty.”
Evelyn flipped up a smile. “Amen.”
Every morning and evening, they each had a few zwiebacks and a slice of hard sausage. Twice during the night, they split an apple. If they didn’t reach French civilization by the end of the fourth night, Peter would suggest half rations.
Evelyn nibbled her apple. “I’ve been thinking about your research.”
“My research?” He thought of it as little as possible. Besides, right now the only thing that mattered was getting Evelyn and the list to the US.
“The recordings aren’t a waste. You’ll recognize the voices.”
“Yes, except the control group under the other instructor at Harvard.” He wiggled his toes. “But the fact that I recognize the voices introduces bias.”
“At least you could assign them to the four groups—at Harvard or at Munich, with your instruction or without. You could pair each student’s two recordings and have another professor label them as before or after.”
Peter took tiny bites of apple to fool his brain into thinking the meal was larger. “I see what you’re saying, but it requires assuming the students improved.”
“A reasonable assumption.”
“An assumption nonetheless. Also, if I assign students to groups, I could theoretically assign those who improved the most to my instructional groups. No. Without the logbook, it’s all worthless.”
Evelyn leaned back against the slope and stretched out her legs. “There has to be a way.”
Peter had to smile at her optimism. “Even if I could assign the students to groups, I’d still be missing the fourth group, the current junior year students, those who would have both immersion and my instruction in their first semester abroad. I can only obtain that data in Germany, and I can never return to Germany until the regime changes. That won’t happen anytime soon.”
Evelyn scowled at the ferns. “They’ll understand, won’t they? The faculty at Harvard?”
“Probably.” Peter shrugged, and pain zinged in his shoulder. He’d twisted it the day before when he’d slipped and grabbed a branch. “That won’t change anything. My dissertation wouldn’t stand up to academic rigor. They can’t accept it. I’ll lose my fellowship because I abandoned my teaching in Munich. I’ll be removed from the PhD program.”
“That isn’t fair.” Anger ruffled her voice.
“It is indeed fair.” He kept his voice low, not hard to do with low spirits. “I can’t finish this project, and I can’t start a new one. Any research in my field requires time in Germany.”
Evelyn turned the wedge of apple in her hand. “What will you do?”
Peter took another bite, although he’d lost his appetite. “I’ll offer my language services to the US Army. But without a PhD, I doubt they’d be interested.”
“The German army was.”
“They saw my techniques in action.” He poked a finger inside his left heel to relieve pressure on a blister. “I only have one option—get my teaching certificate and teach German in high school.”
“That would be nice.”
Peter nodded to convince himself. It wasn’t the professorial position he’d worked for. He wouldn’t write textbooks and lead seminars on how to teach diction. He wouldn’t revolutionize teaching foreign language.
“I’m sorry.” Evelyn’s voice came out soft and soothing.
Maybe it was the fatigue or the hunger or the hopelessness of his situation, but something crumbled inside and left him exposed. “My father. He was a great man.”
Evelyn murmured in understanding.
“He founded a successful company, got elected to the House of Representatives, and had enormous influence. My brothers . . .” Peter gnawed off a chunk of apple. “Richard has taken Father’s seat in the House, Karl runs the company, and Albert will soon be a lawyer, a judge, on a high court someday. They’re expanding our father’s influence. But me? I’ll teach small classes, and most of the students won’t even care about the subject. My influence will be minuscule.”
Evelyn dug a hole in the dirt with the heel of her shoe, and she buried her apple core. “You had quite an influence with your junior year students. I saw you getting to know them, and I saw how they looked up to you.”
“There were only thirty-four of them.” He bit off the last chunk of apple.
With care, Evelyn arranged leaves to hide the burial site. “My articles are read by thousands, but only for fifteen minutes or so. Most will forget what I wrote by the end of the day. I rarely change people’s opinions, much less their lives. My influence is broad, but shallow.”
Peter dug his own apple grave.
“But you, Peter Lang—your influence might be narrow, but it’ll be deep. Deep and profound and for great good. With your character, you can change lives.” In the moonlight, her eyes shone with conviction.
He stared at her as his insides shifted around. She might be correct, but would he ever be content with that life, with that narrow influence? If he failed to become content, that would be a sign of arrogance. And he hated arrogance.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He poked the bitter apple core deep into the earth and covered it. Maybe it would grow to produce sweet fruit. “Someday I will be. Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”
“Just returning the favor.” Her smile gleamed warm, almost fond. Then she nudged his knee. “Come on, Lang. We have a long way to go.”
“We certainly do.” He pushed himself to standing and adjusted the rucksack and blanket. His leg muscles protested, but he hushed them. Those muscles would be dead along with the rest of him if German soldiers or police caught them.
Evelyn led the way through the forest of spindly bare trees. Leaves littered the ground, making it impossible to move quietly.
The moonlight dimmed, and gray clouds scuttled across the inky sky. No rain had fallen during their journey, but rain was inevitable in November.
A breeze fluttered close to the freezing point, and Peter shoved his fedora lower on his head.
A sound drifted ahead of them and above.
Human voices.
Peter tapped Evelyn’s shoulder hard, three times, their signal.
She faced him, eyes wide.
He unfurled the blanket and glanced around for cover—a clump of ferns. They sneaked over, worked their way in among the fronds, and pulled the blanket over them.
Peter hunched over his knees, over his clenched hands, his nose inches from the musty soil. Lord, blind them. Blind them.
The voices grew louder. Two male voices. Speaking German.
“I don’t believe you, Gefreiter,” a man said.
Gefreiter. A corporal. A German soldier. Peter sank lower into the dirt.
“I heard voices,” the corporal said. “One was a woman.”
Pressed to Peter’s side, Evelyn trembled. Peter clutched her hand, and she didn’t push him away.
“Who would be stupid enough to walk these woods at night? This close to the border, they’d get shot by both us and the French. You’re hearing things.”
“I’m not.” Was the corporal’s voice nearer or farther?
Peter squeezed Evelyn’s hand and prayed the brown blanket and the ferns and the darkness and the hand of the Lord would conceal them.
“I heard them over there.”
Probably where they’d taken their break. They’d buried their trash well, hadn’t they? If the soldiers found a fresh apple core, they’d sound the alarm and scour the area.
“Come out and play, little French soldiers,” the German soldier called.
“One’s a woman.”
“The French all sound like women.”
They laughed together, but their voices sounded fainter and from behind them now.
The soldiers had passed Peter and Evelyn, and a long breath poured out. They needed to lie low for a while, then proceed as quietly as possible.
Evelyn’s trembling diminished, but she didn’t release Peter’s hand.
He loved her more each day. They were good together. Did she notice it too?
However, she’d made herself clear. She wanted her independence. As soon as this journey concluded, she’d stop wanting him near.
Peter savored the feeling of her thin gloved hand in his. He’d never stop wanting her.