WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1938
Evelyn awoke, snug and warm, her pillow rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, and she smiled. Her head rested on Peter’s shoulder, her arm draped over his stomach, and the blanket wrapped them in a cocoon.
The first day, she’d accepted the position only out of the necessity of keeping warm. It had been unbelievably, painfully awkward. But by now, the fifth day, it felt marvelous.
Soft afternoon light filtered through the fern fronds screening their spot under an outcropping of golden sandstone.
Despite the exhaustion and hunger and gnawing fear, something about the journey felt oddly idyllic.
Her lower arm cramped, and she shifted position. Peter’s breathing hitched, and he rubbed his eyes with the rumble in his throat he made when he awoke.
“Good morning-evening.” Evelyn pushed up to sitting. “Did my sharp points wake you up?”
“Huh?” Peter sat cross-legged, bowing his head under the stony roof, his hair tousled and only one eye open. Goodness, he was adorable when he was sleepy.
She didn’t even want to know what her hair looked like. She opened her rucksack and pulled out a half-empty zwieback box and a stump of sausage. They were on half rations now to extend their food another four days. “Would you like sausage now or at the end of the day?”
“Now.” He flipped aside the blanket, pulled out his knife, cut off two slices, and said grace.
She passed him three zwiebacks and took two herself, careful to conceal she’d taken fewer. Although he was larger and needed more sustenance, he always split things in perfect halves.
“Coffee?” He passed her the canteen of cold water, one thing they never lacked.
“Thank you. Please pass the cream.” She took a swig.
A smile dug into his cheek. “Don’t worry. You aren’t bony yet.”
She passed back the canteen. “Bony?”
He took a drink and screwed the lid on. “You asked if your sharp points woke me. I’m saying you don’t have any.”
“It was a joke. Men always say I’m all sharp angles. They can’t stand those points poking at them.” Evelyn bit into a zwieback, careful not to lose precious crumbs.
Peter murmured and chewed on a cracker.
What a ridiculous thing for her to say, and she suppressed a groan.
He narrowed his eyes at the ferns shielding them. “That’s why they wanted to tame you. To grind down those points.”
“Yes.” The word leaked out. As long as she’d known him, she’d wanted him to see she’d never be soft and rounded. Now that he finally saw it, sadness flooded deep inside her.
Peter popped the rest of the zwieback in his mouth, shoved the blanket under his crossed legs, and drew in the dirt.
What was he doing? She leaned closer.
He sat up straight. A star was engraved in the soil with five sharp points.
Peter traced the star again, deeper. “Stars shine. Why would anyone want to turn a star into a circle?”
The knowledge lit up inside her, brighter than any star. Sliced into her, sharper than any sword.
“The sun’s about to set.” Peter packed his rucksack.
Evelyn had only half heard what he’d said, blinded and bleeding from the truth. “Oh. All right.”
“I’d like to see how far we can get in the twilight. The moon won’t rise until three in the morning if I estimated correctly. That’ll give us only five hours of hiking before dawn.” He motioned her off the blanket, and she scooted.
Crouching, Peter shook out the blanket. “I think we’re close. Fewer pines and more deciduous trees. The slope is less steep, and the hills are opening up.”
“I—I hope so.” She fumbled for her hat, inspected it for bugs, and put it on.
“I’ll scout. Be right back.” He shoved on his hat and ducked out of their cozy hideaway.
Evelyn dug a hole, relieved herself, and buried the evidence. Then she packed and made sure they’d left no trace.
Only the star remained. She couldn’t bear to erase it, so she spread leaves on top.
A rustling outside, and she stilled.
Peter pulled aside the fronds. “I think we’re close. Let’s go.”
Evelyn passed him his rucksack and blanket, crawled out, and put on her own rucksack, much lighter than when they’d ventured out.
Peter pointed down a valley. “If that leads anywhere near south . . .”
Compass in hand, Evelyn waited for the needle to settle. “South-southeast. Let’s follow it.”
She set out in the golden light of the setting sun. When they passed the rock outcropping, she peered into the valley. “There’s a road down there. Do we dare?”
“Let’s get closer and travel in parallel. Roads lead to towns.”
Evelyn perked up and forged ahead. “On a road we could travel even in full dark. Less risk of getting off course, of falling. If someone comes, we could take cover.”
“Great idea. Let’s do it.” Enthusiasm lit Peter’s voice.
They hiked as quietly as the undergrowth permitted, angling down to that very civilized road. But was it a French road or German?
Peter followed. Never once had he grumbled about a woman leading him.
No wonder she’d fallen in love. He accepted her, points and all. He used his power to protect her, not to restrict her. He was kind, but never condescending.
Evelyn stepped over a fallen beech branch. But what do I do about him, Lord?
If the American News Service didn’t fire her for disappearing for so long, they’d give her a new foreign assignment.
With her crazy career, how could a romance survive? Much less a marriage. A family.
It wouldn’t. She couldn’t have both. She’d have to choose.
Evelyn glanced behind her in the graying evening. Peter gave her a smile and a flick of his chin, signaling her to carry on.
Why did she assume she even had a choice? Although Peter had once been romantically interested in her, their relationship had shifted to friendship, to a brotherly-sisterly closeness.
If only she hadn’t pushed him away so many times.
A spot of white by the road, and she raised one hand. “I think that’s a road sign. I’ll take a look.”
They eased down to the road, and Evelyn peeked from behind a tree—everything looked nice and quiet. She stepped out and read the sign in the distance. “Lembach. Wissembourg. Bourg with an ou, not a u. Peter! It’s French!” She laughed for joy.
“Lembach? That’s on my map. We’re in France!” He scrambled to the road and scooped her into a hug, big and secure.
She never wanted to leave.
But Peter broke loose. “Race you.” He took off running.
Evelyn chased him, laughing, but the blisters on her feet flamed. She slowed to a walk.
Peter spun to her, arms wide. “Come on, Brand. I want dinner and a bath and a good night’s sleep.”
“You need my francs to do it, so you’ll have to wait for me.” Thank goodness she’d never exchanged her francs for Reichsmarks. They probably had enough to make it to Paris. If not, they could wire home for more money.
They walked side by side down the road. The forested hills gave way to open rolling countryside, lightly wooded.
Peter walked backward and made a throwing motion. “Auf Wiedersehen, Deutschland! Auf Wiedersehen, you Nazis and Otto von Albrecht and George Norwood. Good riddance.”
A sudden shiver, and Evelyn tucked her hands in her coat pockets. “You don’t think they’ll follow us, do you? They must have figured out we’re going to France.”
Peter marched down the road, his jaw forward. “The Nazis have no jurisdiction here. George might suspect we’re going to Aubrey’s, but he won’t follow. He isn’t stupid enough to take us on. Or brave enough. He’s a coward.” His voice registered the hardness once reserved for communists, for the men who’d murdered his father.
Evelyn’s heart sank. One more thing he’d lost—a good friend and a lifetime of trust.
Peter nudged her with his elbow. “Just think. In only a few days, you can go to the embassy in Paris and this nightmare will be over.”
She smiled for his sake, but her heart drifted even lower. Peter needed to sail for America to turn in the list to the FBI, but Evelyn would have to wait for her passport and to hear whether the ANS would reassign her or fire her.
They rounded a corner, and lights shone in the distance. A town.
Blisters or not, she picked up speed.
“You’ll have to do the talking, since I don’t speak French,” Peter said. “Remember our story.”
Lost honeymooners. That story might allow the two of them to travel with only one good passport. Of course, they’d have to share a room to bolster that story and to save francs.
They entered the town, full of quaint white buildings with half-timbering near the rooflines. Signs in French soothed her.
An older couple strolled toward them.
Peter sucked in a breath, then let out a self-conscious chuckle.
Evelyn grinned at him. After being on alert so long, it was difficult to act normally.
She turned her smile to the couple. “Bonsoir. Où est un hôtel?”
The gentleman eyed her from bedraggled hair to snagged stockings, then gave directions.
The inn was a half-timbered darling of a building, and Evelyn rang the bell.
A plump little man with a wreath of silver hair opened the door.
Evelyn launched into her story. They were Americans on their honeymoon. They’d gotten lost while hiking, and she’d lost her passport—how could she have been so careless?—and they needed to get to Paris as soon as possible to straighten it out. She had money—thank goodness, she hadn’t lost that. Did they have a room?
“Oui, madame.” He introduced himself as Monsieur Staebell and ushered them inside, where an equally plump little woman joined him.
Evelyn let herself fall apart, and she poured out her story again, how they were so tired and hungry and filthy.
Peter kept his arm around her shoulder, murmuring consolation to her.
The couple fussed over Peter and Evelyn, and within minutes they’d paid for a room and found out how to get to Paris.
Madame Staebell led them into the kitchen, sat them at a table, and served up fragrant bowls of stew and bread. Peter thanked the Lord for his bounty with fervor, and they ate. The stew filled the cold, empty places inside her.
After they finished, Monsieur Staebell led them up steep, winding stairs to their room, tiny but already warmed by a stove.
When the innkeeper left, Peter closed the door. “You are an exceptional actress. Slightly scary.”
Evelyn laughed. “Go take your bath. Madame Staebell promised to bring clean nightclothes, so toss your dirty things out of the bathroom and I’ll start laundry.”
Peter hung his hat and coat on a peg. “I can wash my own things.”
The relief of the day flicked up a smile, and she set her hands on her hips. “Stop being so stubborn and independent. Just once would you listen to me?”
A brilliant smile of recognition broke free. He sat on a chair, tugged off his shoes with a loud groan, and transferred the dangerous list from his shirt pocket back into his shoe.
Why was he so slow in crafting a comeback? She cocked her head to the side.
Peter opened the door and shot her a mischievous smile. “What a good little wife you are.” He ducked out as if he expected her to throw something at him.
Maybe she should have. Just for fun.
After she took off her coat and hat, Evelyn opened the rucksacks and pulled out their suits, last worn on Kristallnacht and badly rumpled. She’d have to press them. For now, she shook them out and hung them up.
She peeked into the hallway. A pile of clothing rested outside the bathroom door, and she fetched it.
Madame Staebell came up the stairs with white linen folded over her pudgy arm. “Here are nightclothes for you and your husband.”
“Merci. You are so kind.” Evelyn took the fragrant clean garments. “May I borrow an iron?”
Madame Staebell clucked her tongue. “Let me. I will press your clothes.”
Evelyn stared at her, and her throat swelled. After so many people had tried to hurt her, kindness from a stranger felt foreign.
Madame Staebell clucked again and motioned with her fingers.
“Merci.” After Evelyn passed the woman the wrinkled suits, she locked the door and shed her stinking clothes. She threw away the shredded stockings and slipped on the nightgown. Voluminous white folds fell to her knees.
She hated to put on a clean nightgown before her bath, but she needed to start the wash. She filled the sink in the room and washed the underthings, her good stockings and blouses, and Peter’s socks and shirts.
When she’d scrubbed away the smell of Germany and the journey, she hung the laundry around the stove to dry.
Poor Peter would hate the mess, but she had no choice.
The doorknob jiggled. A knock. “Evelyn?”
She unlocked it.
Peter stepped in, damp and clean smelling and clad only in a towel about his waist.
Evelyn couldn’t breathe. It was like standing in front of one of the statues in the Munich art museum, perfectly sculpted Aryan masculinity, but alive and breathing and Peter.
“Something to wear?” she heard him say.
“Oh yes.” She darted to the bed and handed him the nightshirt.
“Thanks.” He went off to the corner and turned his back to her—just as impressive as his front—and pulled on the nightshirt. “No pants?”
“Uh, no.”
“It isn’t very—pardon me.” He dropped the towel. “It isn’t very long.”
No, it wasn’t. It covered everything that needed to be covered, but only fell mid-thigh. She chuckled. “You’re showing more leg than you did in your lederhosen.”
He sent her a mock glare. “Go take your bath. You stink.”
“What a sweet little husband you are.” She blew him a kiss and headed to the bathroom.
Soon she sank into warm, soapy heaven. She scrubbed her itchy scalp and nursed her battered feet. Only when the water cooled did she dry herself and put on the tent of a nightdress.
In their room, Peter lay on his back on the floor in a makeshift bed of blanket and pillow, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed.
She had a big soft bed, which wasn’t fair to him. Sitting on the side of the bed, she took off the towel around her head and squeezed her hair dry.
“Lights?” Peter said, his eyes still closed.
Evelyn pulled the chain on the bedside lamp. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She climbed into downy softness with layers of blankets and quilts and warmth. Yet not as snug as she’d been lying beside Peter.
Peter, who was lying all alone on the hard floor.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she said. “There’s plenty of room up here.”
A long, silent moment. “Thanks. I’ll stay down here.” His voice sounded pinched.
Goodness gracious! In the darkness, she clapped her hands over her face. What on earth had she been thinking? “I am so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. That was completely, horribly inappropriate—”
“Sweet,” he said. “It was completely, horribly sweet of you.”
Her face scrunched up under the pressure of her hands. “Thank you.” Her voice squeaked out.
“Besides . . .” His voice took on a teasing lilt. “I’m flattered that you invited me into your bed.”
Evelyn gasped and slapped her hands down onto the covers. “That is not what I meant. Aren’t you sure of yourself!”
He laughed, long and rolling and hearty, the first good laugh she’d heard from him in weeks.
“You stinker.” She wrenched her pillow from under her head and threw it at him.
“Two pillows. My, my. You really are sweet. Thank you.”
“Peter!” She managed to talk through the laughter. “Give it back.”
“Good night, Evie.”
She settled back onto the mattress. “My name isn’t Evie.”
“It suits you.”
No, it didn’t. An Evie was soft and rounded. An Evie would climb out of bed, kiss him, tell him she loved him, and thank him for all he’d done for her. Evelyn couldn’t do that.
She rolled onto her back. Even if she couldn’t do all of that, she could do the most important part. “I haven’t thanked you enough for all you’ve done.”
“You don’t have—”
“Yes, I do. You saved my life, you’ve given up everything you own, you’ve lost your research and your career, and you’ve been kind and good to me each and every minute. I want you to know how much I appreciate it.” Her mouth dried out. “How much I appreciate you.”
He lay so still for so long.
She grimaced. Had he fallen asleep? Or had he realized she’d fallen in love and was figuring out how to let her down gently?
“You’re welcome.” His voice sounded gravelly. “It’s been an honor, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
He would, wouldn’t he? She nestled down with her head flat on the mattress. She didn’t mind the lack of a pillow. Not for him.
A whishing sound, and the pillow landed on her hip. “Good night, Evie.”
“Good night, Peter.” Good night, my love.