PARIS
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1938
Suitcase in hand, Peter opened the door to the US Embassy for Simone Aubrey and followed her inside. Evelyn stood in the foyer with Paul Aubrey and Reverend Thompson. No one else in the foyer, and the tension in Peter’s lungs released.
Evelyn slipped her arm in Peter’s as freely as any wife would. “You made it. Any problems?”
“No, but Simone saw some suspicious characters on their street.” In case Norwood was watching the Aubrey home, Paul had left in his car as if on his way to work, with Evelyn low in the backseat. Half an hour later, Simone’s chauffeur had driven her in the opposite direction as if out for a day of shopping, but with Peter hiding in the backseat.
“Suspicious characters?” Evelyn’s fingers dug into Peter’s arm.
Simone adjusted her hat. “Two men leaning against lampposts, reading newspapers, not even close to a bus stop.”
Aubrey’s expression grew dour. “I saw George.”
“You did?” Evelyn said. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want to risk you raising your head to verify.” Aubrey gave her an apologetic look. “I pretended I didn’t see him, but I could tell he saw me.”
Peter’s grip on the suitcase tightened. “Did he follow you?”
“I didn’t see any cars behind me.”
Regardless, Peter and Evelyn couldn’t return to Aubrey’s house. If she obtained her visa, they’d take the train to Cherbourg and sail on the RMS Aquitania on Friday. If not, Evelyn would ask one of her Parisian friends for a new hiding place.
Reverend Thompson gestured to the staircase. “Are we ready?”
“We’ll be in the waiting room,” Aubrey said. “If you need help, give us a thumbs-down behind Evelyn’s back, and we’ll create a diversion so you can leave.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” Evelyn’s eyes looked watery, and she hugged Simone.
Peter shook Aubrey’s hand. If things went badly, this could be farewell. “Thanks again for the loan. I’ll pay you back as soon as we reach New York. And thank you . . .” Peter pressed his hand over his heart, over the small pistol hidden in his suit jacket. Aubrey had bought it to defend himself from communists rioting in his factory, and now Peter carried it to protect Evelyn from fascists.
“Let’s go.” Chin high, Evelyn took Peter’s arm again, and they headed upstairs and down the hallway to the right. “Remember, I want to do this legally and honestly.”
“I know.” But if he had to lie to get her home, he would. Technically, he wasn’t breaking the law, since Evelyn was an American citizen and had every right to enter the United States.
They paused inside the visa office, laid out like the passport office, with a long counter and six officials. No one sat in the waiting room, which would make escape easier if necessary. The Aubreys and the reverend took seats.
Peter turned to Evelyn. To his wife. “Ready?”
She looked up at him, her expression brimming with strength, but with an undercurrent of fear. His chest ached with his love for her, with his need for her, and with the knowledge that she needed him too.
In that moment he felt the weight of the vows they’d spoken the day before, felt like a true husband to her, felt the pleasure of that single heart-filling, heart-shattering kiss.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Peter led her to an official, a heavyset man in his thirties. Peter set the suitcase by his feet, where he could grab it in a hurry, and he gave the official a friendly smile. “Good morning. I’m an American citizen, and my wife needs a tourist visa. We were married yesterday.”
“Congratulations.” The official gave Peter a card. “Please fill this out.”
After they filled out the card, they handed it back, along with the marriage certificate and passports, with Peter’s on top.
The official scanned Peter’s passport and set it aside, exposing Evelyn’s. He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re German.”
Evelyn’s smile was so sweet, Peter’s teeth ached. “I was raised and educated in Chicago, and my entire family lives in Chicago. But yes, that is the passport I carry right now.”
Not a single untrue word, and Peter smiled.
The official opened Evelyn’s passport, and alarm flashed in his eyes. “You’re Jewish.”
Evelyn slid over her press pass, her fingers concealing her actual birthplace. “I won’t be a burden on American society. I’m a reporter with the American News Service. You can verify my employment with the bureau here in Paris or with the European bureau chief in London.”
Peter gave the man a look heavy with meaning. “You’ve heard of the problems in Germany. She ran into difficulties with the Gestapo and had to leave in a hurry.”
The official frowned and flipped through her passport. He’d reacted—but not to Evelyn’s name. Maybe the alert hadn’t crossed from the passport office to the visa office after all.
The official studied a blank page in the passport. “If you’ve lived in the US so long, why don’t you already have a visa?”
Evelyn’s hand went stiff on his arm. She didn’t have a truthful answer to that, did she?
He could still see the panic on her face the day she’d discovered that false passport. Once again, she needed his help. And the memory of that day gave him the answer.
Peter tapped the document that had sent them running for their lives. “You heard how the Nazis revoked the passports of all Jewish people. This one is brand-new.”
“Oh.” The official’s face fell. “They didn’t transfer the visa, did they?”
“The Nazis aren’t known for either compassion or fairness.” He’d honored her wishes and hadn’t told a lie. Yet.
The official’s brown-eyed gaze bounced between Peter and Evelyn, narrowing to a slit. “So, you saw marriage as your solution?”
Peter forced a lighthearted chuckle. “I wanted to marry her. This just sped up the process.”
Evelyn relaxed against his side. “My parents will kill me for not having a big wedding at home, but all will be forgiven when they meet my darling Peter.”
Well, now she’d lied, so she couldn’t fault him if he did likewise.
The official studied the marriage certificate. “I’ll need to verify this.”
Peter beckoned to Reverend Thompson. “The pastor who officiated is here.”
“Reverend Thompson?” the official said.
“Good morning, Mr. Goodwin.” The reverend joined them at the counter. “I was pleased to see you in church on Sunday.”
“The sermon was excellent, Reverend.” Mr. Goodwin stood taller. “Did you indeed marry this couple?”
“Just yesterday.” He set a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “Rarely do you see two people more loving and dedicated to each other than Mr. and Mrs. Lang.”
Evelyn cast a gaze up to Peter, as loving and dedicated as the pastor said, and Peter squeezed her waist. Lying with her eyes, the rascal. Well, he could tell a truth with his lips, and he kissed her forehead.
“Thank you, Reverend.” The official made notes on the card. “This will expedite the process. Mrs. Lang, we should have your visa in a few weeks.”
Peter and Evelyn gasped together. “A few weeks?” Peter said.
How long would it take for the alert to pass within the embassy building? Not long once George figured out their strategy.
“Sir?” Evelyn’s voice trembled. “We can’t wait that long.”
“We need to leave now.” Peter patted the counter, not a slap, but firm. “I had to abandon my teaching position in Munich due to my wife’s emergency, and I need to meet with the faculty at Harvard right away or I’ll lose my position. We need to sail on the Aquitania on Friday.”
Mr. Goodwin gave him a sympathetic look. “You may sail on Friday, but your wife can’t.”
“Oh, Peter.” She slumped against his side.
“I won’t leave without her.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Goodwin.” Reverend Thompson leaned his elbows on the counter. “Forgive me for intruding, but isn’t there some way to get these two on the Aquitania? It’s their honeymoon.”
“I can’t. You under—”
“What more do you need?” The pastor’s smile carried both warmth and authority. “You have two valid passports, one for an American citizen. You have a valid and verified marriage certificate. Why, you even have proof of employment for the bride.”
“We—we have procedures.” Mr. Goodwin shuffled the documents. “We—we need—”
Reverend Thompson set his hand on the papers. “If anything on that form proves false, you could wire New York and have her detained when the Aquitania docks. You may hold me personally accountable.”
Peter saw the official’s wavering, felt his struggle between rules and mercy.
“Please, sir,” Evelyn said. “It would mean so much to us. Why, we’d name our first child after you.”
An empty promise, but Goodwin wouldn’t know that. The official frowned at the passport for a long moment, then he pulled a stamp from a drawer and stamped Evelyn’s visa. “My name is John.”
Peter laughed with relief. “John is a fine name.”
“It is. John Lang. I like it.” Evelyn gazed up at Peter in such a way that he could imagine her holding a chubby, curly-haired babe with coffee-and-milk eyes.
He pressed another kiss to her forehead. How could she hold it against him when she was looking at him that way?
“Here.” Goodwin slid the paperwork to them. “Go catch that ship. I expect baby pictures within a year.”
“Lord willing, sir. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Peter grinned, shook the man’s hand, and spun Evelyn to the door. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”