PARIS
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1938
Evelyn paused in the doorway to the passport office in the US Embassy. A long counter manned by half a dozen clerks opposed her, but she could do this.
“Ready?” Peter asked by her side.
Evelyn straightened her shoulders and selected an available clerk on the far right by the wall, an older gentleman who might be sympathetic to a young lady’s plight. “I’m ready.”
Peter found an empty seat. “I’m here if you need me.”
Evelyn packed a lot of gratitude into her smile. He trusted her to take care of herself, but he’d step in if she couldn’t.
Her ankles wobbled as she approached the counter, but she gave the clerk a smile she hoped looked both friendly and pitiful. “Good morning, sir. I’m an American citizen, and I’ve lost my passport.”
The man’s lips thinned. “Must everyone be so careless?”
“It was stolen, sir. Carelessness had nothing to do with it.” Oh dear. She had to avoid sharp words. Time to play the helpless female. “I apologize. I—I’ve been through such an ordeal.”
The clerk slipped her a card and a pencil, and she began filling it out.
“I’ll warn you, miss,” the clerk said. “This is a long process. With so many Jews trying to sneak into America, we have to be careful.”
The pencil almost snapped in Evelyn’s hand. They weren’t sneaking—they were fleeing for their lives.
“You’re not one of them, are you?” He narrowed eyes as gray as his hair, as if Evelyn’s dark eyes and hair were condemning evidence.
Evelyn turned the card to him, the top half filled out. “Name—Evelyn Margaret Brand. Birthplace—Chicago, Illinois. My passport number, which ought to speed the process. I cabled home this morning, and my parents will send a copy of my birth certificate to my Paris address. Also, my employer will vouch for me. I’ll write my boss’s name and number on the card.”
He harrumphed and picked up the card. “Evelyn . . . Brand?” His gaze snapped to her. “The reporter?”
Someone recognized her byline? Every reporter’s dream come true. “Why, yes. I’m with the American News Service.”
The clerk took a step back and gave her a strange, twitchy smile.
Did that mean he liked her writing? Or hated it?
“Excuse me, Miss Brand. I’ll be right back.” He darted along behind the counter and flagged down a middle-aged gentleman standing to the far left in the back of the office.
Peter rose and picked up a discarded newspaper on a chair.
The reporter in her hated to see anyone reading a paper without paying for it, but she couldn’t blame Peter for wanting to pass the time.
He went to the far end of the counter, leaned against it, and raised the newspaper.
The clerk and the man who had to be his supervisor were in deep discussion, studying her card and glancing at her. Then the supervisor pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, handed it to the clerk, and motioned him toward the side offices.
The clerk entered an office door, not five feet from Peter, and he picked up a phone and dialed.
Evelyn drummed her fingers on the gleaming wooden counter, but what was another five minutes in a process that would take weeks?
Might as well keep busy while she waited. She took out her notepad and found her notes on the article Hamilton Chase had earmarked for Ladies’ Home Journal but Peter had earmarked for Collier’s or the Atlantic Monthly. She had plenty of material for a feature article. Over the next few minutes, she sketched an outline.
“Evelyn.” Peter’s voice came from behind her—low, firm, strident. “Do not look at me. Do not talk to me.”
What on earth? Her breath caught in her throat. She lifted her head but resisted the impulse to face him.
The clerk was talking to the supervisor again. Then he turned and approached Evelyn with a wide smile.
“Leave now,” Peter said. “Pass me without a glance. I’ll follow a few minutes later.”
Everything in his voice spoke of urgency and danger, and Evelyn couldn’t breathe. What on earth was going on?
“Miss Brand?” The clerk returned to the counter, his smile even wider. “We’ve found a way to expedite the process. Please come with me into the back office.”
Expedite the process?
Something ripped inside her. Follow the clerk and his promise of an early escape home? Or follow Peter’s odd warning, without explanation, without reason?
Evelyn stepped back, bobbling her purse and notepad. “I—please pardon me. I need to find the powder room.”
The clerk’s smile flattened. “Your powder looks fine. Come with me, please.”
“It’s urgent. I’ll be back in a minute.” She headed for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Peter seated, the newspaper hiding his face.
Her heart beat a wild pattern, and she strode down the hall and down the stairs past a Gilbert Stuart painting of George Washington, past the seal of the United States, the promise of freedom—why couldn’t she find it?
In the lobby, she pressed back against the wall close to the door, with the staircase in view. If she spotted the clerk or his supervisor, she’d flee. “Please, Peter,” she murmured. “Hurry.”
Had he meant for her to leave the office or the building? To return to the Aubreys’ or find another refuge? Was she supposed to wait for him?
Her breath bounced in her mouth. She hadn’t felt this scared since Kristallnacht, but this time she couldn’t name the danger. She only knew it existed.
Two women came downstairs. Three gentlemen entered the front door. No Peter.
Prayers bumbled around in her head, and she shoved her notepad in her purse so she wouldn’t lose it if she had to run.
Never once did she break her gaze with the staircase. One hundred—she’d count to one hundred then take a cab to the Aubrey home.
A man’s legs came into view—Peter, sauntering downstairs, taking his time.
Evelyn pushed away from the wall to rush to him, but he held up one hand before his stomach and made a little pushing motion. He looked at the door, not at her.
He wanted her to stay back and pretend she didn’t know him, so she gazed around as if waiting for someone else.
About six feet from her, he squatted, yanked his shoelace undone, and tied it again. “George knows you’re here,” he said in that low and intense voice. “Go to Aubrey’s. Take the first cab you see. I’ll go separately. Go—now.”
Her mind whirled with questions and confusion and stark, cold fear. She glanced at her wristwatch and heaved a sigh as if her appointment were late, then she opened the wooden door and left.
At a brisk clip, she crossed the courtyard and exited through wrought-iron gates flanked by stone eagles on pillars. Blind. Powerless.
The open expanse of the Place de la Concorde faced her, the plaza named after harmony and agreement, where hundreds had been guillotined in the French Revolution.
Evelyn stumbled on a cobblestone, then pulled herself together.
A black cab sat at the curb, and Evelyn slipped in the back door. “Sacré-Coeur, s’il vous plaît,” she said to the driver. The church lay to the north while the Aubrey home lay to the southwest. If George Norwood was watching, she’d lead him astray. In a few blocks, she’d give the driver the correct address.
The cab drove north. Evelyn restrained herself from looking out the back window for Peter.
Oh no. He didn’t speak French, he didn’t know Paris, and she was leaving him.
Her heart strained for him. For his safety. For his presence.
Now that she knew the power of partnership, being alone had lost its appeal.