HAGUENAU, FRANCE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1938
In the train station, Peter stood with his hand on Evelyn’s shoulder as she rattled off a flurry of French. For a composed woman, she played a flustered damsel with remarkable ease.
Every time the poor ticket agent started to turn the page in Peter’s passport, probably looking for the French transit visa Peter didn’t have, Evelyn set her hand on the passport and launched another litany, most likely about newlyweds and lost passports and—were those tears in her eyes? My, she was good.
The ticket agent looked as flustered as Evelyn, and soon he handed her two tickets.
“Merci!” Evelyn pressed her hand to her heart and looked up to Peter. “We have tickets to Paris.”
“Thank you. Merci.” Peter deliberately sounded as American as possible. He might not speak French, but he could hear the diction and music of the language, and he could probably reproduce the accent without much effort.
“Come along, darling.” Evelyn took his arm and led him out of the depot.
A streamlined locomotive pointed its rounded nose west. On the platform, passersby gave Peter and Evelyn second looks—their grungy rucksacks didn’t belong with their neatly pressed suits. Thank goodness it was warm enough not to wear their overcoats, which were filthy.
After Evelyn purchased a newspaper, they climbed the steps to their car, stashed rucksacks and coats in the overhead rack, and settled in.
“I’ve been thinking,” Evelyn whispered. She slipped her hand in his and peered down the aisle. “We should act like newlyweds in case the conductor asks for our papers along with our tickets.”
“Agreed.” He squeezed her hand and gave her a loving look, which she returned.
His heart strained. For her, it was pretense, but Peter could finally drop all pretense.
In a few minutes, the train pulled away from the station.
Evelyn disengaged her hand and opened the newspaper. “Shall I translate for you?”
“Yes, please.” He draped his arm around her shoulder, and she nestled up to his side. So natural and comfortable, yet it wasn’t real.
“Stop me if a headline grabs you.” Evelyn flipped pages and read headlines, all about France. “Here! Something about Germany. Oh! You won’t believe this.”
“What?” He tried to make sense of the words—so many vowels.
“Boy, I’m glad I’m in a free country again and can speak my mind.” She jabbed her finger at a headline. “Germany has blamed the Kristallnacht violence—on the Jews! They’re fining the Jews for the damage—one billion Reichsmarks—one-fifth of all Jewish assets. That’s why they wanted the Jews to register their assets back in April—so they could steal them. I can’t believe it.”
A groan collapsed Peter’s chest. “Sadly, I can.” Hatred was never satisfied. The more it ate, the more it hungered.
“Oh no.” Her voice diminished. “More—even more antisemitic laws. The Decree on the Exclusion of Jews from German Economic Life. They’re banned from operating stores or businesses and from the trades.”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut. They’d already been banned from the professions. They’d be left with manual labor, if they could get it.
“That’s not all. They’re banned from Aryan cultural events and theaters and hospitals and . . . and schools. I can’t stand this. I can’t.” Evelyn turned a page and frowned at the articles. “The world is doing nothing. Look—Britain and France clucked their tongues, and Roosevelt—all he did was recall our ambassador.”
“That’s better than nothing.” Peter shrugged. “Hitler wants recognition on the world stage, and the president is depriving him of that.”
“We need to do more.” Embers burned in Evelyn’s eyes. “Germany’s economy is highly dependent on American cash and resources and industry. We need to cut them off.”
“I agree, but American companies would disagree.”
“You have to talk to them. You have friends in business, in government. Talk to them.”
“I will.” Her belief in him inflated his chest. He smiled, enjoying the nearness of her pretty face. “And you have to write about it.”
Her shoulders shrank in his embrace. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can and you must. I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge. You’re a star. Stars shine.”
And those eyes shone at him, wide and luminous, searching for confidence—from him.
He pressed a kiss to her nose. He couldn’t help it. Besides, it fit with the role of husband. “Your articles on the Munich Conference were insightful and thought-provoking. You’ll write something great about Kristallnacht.”
Evelyn glanced out the window to the wooded landscape whishing by. “It’s too late.”
“For a news article, it is. But you have a bigger story. You no longer have to appease Goebbels and his propaganda ministry. You’re free to write the stories you had to repress. I envision one of those features you see in Collier’s or the Atlantic Monthly. A book even.”
“A book?”
“I’d read it. Pretty exciting stuff. Especially the part about the dashing graduate student playing spy.”
Evelyn laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. Lightly. Then her mouth firmed, and her gaze darted around. “I do have your notes.”
“My notes?”
“From the Nazi Party meetings. I couldn’t use most of the material, but I transcribed your notes and reworded them and burned the originals to protect you.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t thought about that.” He frowned. “You have them? Where?”
“In my purse, in the lining with the cash. After the passport switch, I transcribed your notes in the tiniest shorthand I could manage. It fit on a few sheets of paper.”
“You’re incredible.” It was all he could do not to kiss her for real.
Evelyn patted the purse by her side. “You took a lot of risks getting this information.”
“Now you can use it. Say, that really would make a good book, complete with an exciting ending with Nazis and Norwood on our tail.”
“No.” She shook her head hard. “I can’t write about Norwood unless he’s convicted. We don’t even have enough of a case to get him arrested.”
Of course, they did. His mind whirled over the evidence—how George blamed Evelyn for his job loss, Charles’s position in the passport office, Peter’s phone call to George on Kristallnacht, the timing of Otto’s attack on Evelyn. Motive, means, opportunity.
But nothing else. The only concrete evidence was the false passport—with no proof of where it came from.
Peter let out a long groan. “It’s crystal clear to us, but it wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“No.” She folded her arms around her stomach. “We can only pray his anger simmers down, and that he never realizes we figured out what he did.”
Peter’s own anger bubbled to a boil. George had better pray he never saw Peter again.
Evelyn drew her purse onto her lap and pulled out a notepad.
“Taking notes?” Peter asked. “That’s my little star.”
She glared at him from under the brim of her hat.
Peter gazed at the ceiling of the passenger car. “I think I shall call you Twinkles.”
“Twinkles?” The word warped with disgust.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”
“Absolutely not. It’s bad enough you call me Evie.”
He glanced around at the passengers. “Newlyweds should have pet names for each other.”
“Then I’ll call you Baloney, because you’re full of it.”
Peter laughed. “You write. I’ll nap.” He leaned his head on the seatback and slipped his hat over his face.
“Go ahead. Your snoring has a soothing effect.”
He lifted his hat enough to scowl at her. “I don’t snore.”
She smiled. “If that’s what you want to believe . . .”
Peter lowered his hat and filled it with a contented sigh.
If only this were real. But it wasn’t. When they reached Paris, the marriage charade would end, and she’d leave his arms. When they reached America, she’d leave his life.
Evelyn Brand needed freedom, and out of love for her, he’d grant it.
PARIS
In Paris’s tony 16th arrondissement, golden lights shone from the windows of a four-story house of creamy stone. Paul Aubrey came from money, married into money, earned money—and it showed.
“I think he’ll have room for us.” Peter led Evelyn up the steps to the front door.
She clung to her rucksack. “I hope so, because we’re out of cash.”
Peter rang the bell. In a moment, a butler opened the door.
The man came straight from central casting, with sleepy dark eyes, slicked-back dark hair, and a thin mustache. “Bonsoir, monsieur et madame.”
Peter stilled. For some reason, he’d thought everyone in the Aubrey home would speak English.
“Bonsoir,” Evelyn said. Then a string of vowels and “Monsieur Aubrey” and more vowels and “Peter Lang.”
“Oui, madame.” The butler admitted them to a high-ceilinged foyer of gleaming marble, then disappeared into a room to the left.
Soft conversation, then footsteps, then Paul Aubrey appeared in the doorway wearing a sweater and a big grin. “Peter? What on earth are you doing here?”
Peter shook his Harvard chum’s hand. Aubrey stood only an inch or two shorter than Peter, with smooth brown hair and the kind of smile that made others smile even when they didn’t want to. “You haven’t changed a bit, old boy.”
Aubrey laughed and eyed Peter from head to foot. “I can’t say the same about you. Where’s our old bean?”
“Bean?” Evelyn asked.
“String bean,” Peter grumbled. “Evelyn, this is my friend Paul Aubrey. Aubrey, this is Miss Evelyn Brand, a correspondent with the American News Service.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Aubrey shook Evelyn’s hand. “Come on in. Simone’s kissing the baby good night. She’ll be down shortly.”
Aubrey led them into a large sitting room with a parquet floor and tall windows framed by golden drapes. “Have you eaten?”
Peter and Evelyn sat on a dark red sofa and exchanged a glance. On the train they’d eaten their last zwiebacks and apple, but this late at night, asking for dinner would be rude.
“Your silence means no.” Aubrey chuckled, returned to the foyer, and summoned the butler. More French, then he sat on the other sofa and frowned. “I wish you’d called. We would have prepared rooms for you. You’re staying with us, aren’t you?”
“I hope so.” Peter resisted the urge to put his arm around Evelyn—he no longer had an excuse. “We’re out of money.”
The frown deepened. “It isn’t like you to be unprepared.”
“We left Germany in a hurry.”
Aubrey leaned his forearms on his knees. “What’s going on?”
Peter hesitated, lacing his fingers together. “Have you heard from George Norwood?”
“Peter, you shouldn’t,” Evelyn said.
“From George?” Aubrey leaned back in his chair and studied them. “Not in several months. Why?”
“Peter . . .” She all but growled at him.
He patted her hands, folded on her knees, but kept his gaze on Aubrey. “If he should call, don’t tell him we’re in Paris. Don’t mention us at all.”
“What is going on?” Aubrey’s voice hardened.
“I thought I heard voices.” An elegant brunette strolled in, speaking English with a French accent and an amused tone. “Why did you not mention having guests, my dear?”
“I didn’t know they were coming.” Aubrey stood and introduced Peter and Evelyn to his wife, Simone. “They’ll be staying with us.”
Simone clasped her hands together. “Magnifique! I shall find Claudette and have her make up your rooms.”
“I’ll go with you.” Evelyn grabbed both rucksacks and headed out.
Peter took his seat again. Something told him Evelyn didn’t want to hear the story any more than Peter wanted to tell it.
But tell it he did, and while he did, Aubrey’s expression turned from confusion to disbelief to shock to horror. Peter shared those feelings.
At Harvard, Peter and George and Aubrey and Henning had been inseparable, a fraternity within the fraternity. And Peter’s friendship with George ran back to childhood summers at the shore. To think an old friend was capable of such cruelty—it shredded him inside.
Aubrey sat with his fingers splayed across his mouth. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “You and Miss Brand may stay with us as long as you need.”
The butler stepped into the sitting room and addressed Aubrey.
“Your dinner is ready,” Aubrey said to Peter. “Xavier will summon the ladies.”
“Thanks.” His stomach protested the emptiness, especially with savory smells wafting from the adjacent room.
Aubrey showed Peter toward that room, then stopped and held out his hand for a handshake.
Odd at this point in the evening, but Peter obliged.
Aubrey grasped his hand hard, his brown eyes full of emotion. “I’m proud to know you.”
“Me? Why?”
Aubrey chuckled and led Peter into the dining room. “That, old bean, is exactly why.”