“Imagine our names in a newspaper in America,” the youngest lady said, clad in a fashionable green coat.
Evelyn led them away from the entrance. The correspondents in Berlin would get the main bylines for the articles on the national election, but only Evelyn would write about the women’s angle. ANS might actually pick it up.
“Are you related?” Evelyn asked. “You have the same lovely shade of blue eyes.”
“My daughter and my granddaughter,” the oldest woman said. “We voted ‘Ja.’”
Evelyn took notes. “You voted in favor of the Anschluss, the unification of Germany and Austria.”
“It is all Germany now.” The daughter’s heavyset face glowed. “Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.”
One people, one empire, one leader. Evelyn wrote the slogan she’d heard innumerable times.
“Hitler has made Germany strong again. He is undoing the disgrace of Versailles.” The grandmother puckered her mouth.
Evelyn murmured. The Versailles Treaty at the end of the Great War had gutted the German military and imposed severe reparations. The Germans blamed the treaty for the poverty Peter Lang had observed six years earlier. The chaos.
She frowned and took notes. “And now . . . ?”
“Now we hold our heads high.” The granddaughter lifted her chin. “The world can see how great our Führer is and how good he is to us.”
The grandmother patted Evelyn’s arm. “You Americans should follow our example. All the gangsters! And the soup lines.” She clucked her tongue.
Evelyn’s jaw tightened. Yes, times were hard in America, but a dictatorship wasn’t the solution.
After she took the ladies’ names at their request, they went on their way.
Evelyn adjusted her leather gloves. Snow frosted the street in white, with shiny black tracks where cars had driven. She’d heard reports from farmers about the cold snap causing a loss of blossoms from fruit trees, and the government predicted a fruit shortage. So much for apple strudel and plum cake.
A woman left the polling place, her gaze darting about, and she gave the storm trooper guards at the door a wide berth.
A woman with a story. Evelyn met her about twenty feet from the door. “Guten Morgen. I’m Evelyn Brand with the American News Service. May I interview you?”
The woman startled. Thin lines cupped around her mouth, and gray streaked the brown braid coiled around her head like a halo. “An—an American reporter?”
“Yes.” Evelyn gave her a soothing smile. “May I interview you about the plebiscite?”
“Nein.” She stepped around Evelyn and hustled down the sidewalk.
Bother. It would have been nice to have had one dissenting voice, even a cautious voice. Evelyn wouldn’t have taken her name.
Over the next hour, she interviewed several dozen ladies. The vast majority spoke with enthusiasm about the Anschluss and their Führer. A smaller number spoke the same words but with stiff voices and furtive glances to the brown-uniformed SA storm troopers, even though Evelyn conducted her interviews well out of earshot.
The correspondents predicted a 99 percent “Ja” vote as in every other Nazi plebiscite. Every day the Germans lost a little more freedom, but they had jobs, and that was all that seemed to matter to them. But freedom mattered to Evelyn.
With plenty of interviews, Evelyn closed her notepad. She’d write her article and phone it to Berlin this afternoon. Norwood insisted on editing her work first. Only hers. Completely insulting. After all, the staff in New York edited all articles before publication.
Evelyn slipped her notepad into her purse.
“Excuse me, Fräulein. You dropped your handkerchief.” A lady held out a white hankie.
Evelyn hadn’t used hers. “No, I—”
The woman grabbed her hand and stuffed the fabric into her grip—the skittish woman with the halo braid. The handkerchief crinkled.
And Evelyn understood. “Oh, it is mine. Danke schön.”
“Bitte.” She slipped away.
Without looking, Evelyn stuffed the handkerchief and the enclosed note in her purse. She’d read it in the privacy of her apartment.
She turned the corner. The street was strangely empty, and she peered ahead.
Two blocks up, red and black standards bobbed. A parade.
Evelyn glanced around for a place to hide. A butcher shop, and she ducked inside. It didn’t matter who was parading—military or SA or Hitler Youth—everyone watching was required to raise the Nazi salute.
Sure, the German government had issued numerous decrees stating that foreigners weren’t required to salute, but Evelyn didn’t exactly wear the flag of the United States as a shawl. In the past five years, dozens of Americans had been beaten up for not saluting at parades. An official apology didn’t mend broken bones.
She browsed the butcher case. Might as well buy meat for dinner, but the pickings were slim. The government’s insistence on making the German economy self-sufficient had led to food shortages.
The sound of drums and trumpets and cheering built, and Evelyn feigned indecision, although she knew what she wanted. It was her night to cook, and she craved meatloaf.
When the din peaked, Evelyn asked for half a pound of Hackfleisch, the German equivalent of ground beef.
The butcher weighed out the meat and wrapped it in paper, and Evelyn slowly picked out coins for payment.
By the time she finished, the little parade had passed. After checking both directions, Evelyn hurried home.
Flute music wafted from inside the apartment—Johann Sebastian Bach’s Suite no. 2 in B minor. Evelyn flung open the door, tossed the meat on the table, plopped into a kitchen chair, and snatched the note from her purse.
The music stopped. “Well, hello to you too.”
“Hi, Libby.” Evelyn unfolded the paper—“Brot, Käse, Kraut.” A shopping list. She flipped it over. “A woman sneaked me a note at the polling place.”
“How exciting.” Libby came over, flute in hand, her hair bound in a braid down her back. “What does it say?”
Evelyn peered at it. Not only was German handwriting script difficult to decipher, but the woman had written small and had filled every space. Evelyn read aloud for Libby’s benefit.
I will not tell you my name, but I want you to tell our story, the true story no one dares voice.
You asked my opinion on the plebiscite. It is a sham. No Jews are allowed to vote, but everyone else is required to. If you don’t go to your polling place, they bring you by force.
The ballot asks, “Do you agree with the reunification of Austria with the German Reich, and do you vote for the policies of Adolf Hitler?” One vote on both questions. A large circle in the center of the ballot is marked “Ja.” To the side is a small circle marked “Nein.” To vote no is not only disagreeing with the Anschluss but opposing Hitler and his policies. To vote no is treason.
The voting is not secret. A long table stands in the open, and brownshirts watch over our shoulders as we mark our ballots. Those who vote no will be arrested. In case anyone sneaks past, the ballots are marked. When I checked in, they wrote a number beside my name on the elector list. I felt bumps on my ballot and inspected them surreptitiously. It was the same number, as if someone had typed it without a ribbon. If you vote no, they will track you down.