To vote no is to offer yourself to the Gestapo for arrest, torture, and a trip to Dachau.
I voted yes, but I hate Hitler and his regime. I work as a secretary at a government ministry, and I hear many things. If you are interested in hearing them too, meet me tonight at 10 p.m. in the Maximiliansanlage by the Angel of Peace monument.
“You have a new informant.” Libby squeezed Evelyn’s shoulder.
“I think so. You have to be careful with informants, especially the eager ones. They’re often sent by the Gestapo. But I think this woman is genuine.” After Evelyn wrote her article, she’d feed the note to the fire.
“Are you going to meet her tonight? It’ll be cold.”
“Of course, but first I have an article to write.” At her desk, Evelyn shoved aside papers and hefted up her typewriter case. She’d last used it on Thursday at Herr Gold’s café.
Peter Lang had visited the café again, which was bothersome. Yet she was glad to see him in good spirits after how she’d treated him on Tuesday.
She could still see the shock and pain on Peter’s face when she’d mentioned his father. Just because she had access to information didn’t give her the right to invade his privacy. His grief.
How horrendous for him to have watched his own father’s murder. Now she understood why he felt the way he did—although she’d never agree with him.
Evelyn opened her typewriter case. A piece of paper remained in the roller—she never did that. She twisted the knob to roll it up a few lines.
“Dinner tonight?” was typed, and Evelyn laughed.
The flute music stopped again. “What’s so funny?”
“This.” Evelyn took the paper to Libby at her music stand. “Peter must have typed it when I went to the kitchen to say good-bye to Herr Gold. You know me—I pack so quickly, I didn’t even see it.”
“That’s sweet. You should give him another chance.”
“Absolutely not.” Evelyn returned to her typewriter and rolled the paper back in. “He has a certain charm about him, but we don’t agree on the important things. Besides, I don’t need a man to lean on.”
“I know. You can handle anything.”
“I can.” She typed “No, thank you.” If Peter returned to the café, she’d give it to him. It was rather rude of her not to have replied.
“You and the Lord together can handle anything.” Libby’s tone implied that her statement was a wish for Evelyn, not the truth.
Her fingers settled onto the keys, each finger pad nestled in round black lacquer.
“‘The Lord is my strength and song,’” Libby quoted, “‘and is become my salvation.’”
“Yes.” Evelyn loved God. He was indeed her song and her salvation. She rejoiced in how he’d freed her from sin.
But she didn’t need him for strength as Libby did. Still, she was glad the Lord was there to help in a pinch.
Libby’s metronome ticked away, and notes from Bach’s suite tumbled out.
Evelyn added her own music in time to the metronome, the music of her typewriter keys, the music of her words, of truth.
SEVEN
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20, 1938
The pageantry thrilled Peter’s heart, and the eloquence of the human form in motion pleased his eyes. The most spectacular movie he’d ever seen. He’d bought tickets to the premiere of Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia for Evelyn’s sake, but he was glad he’d come.
“Let’s go,” Evelyn whispered in the darkness beside him.
“Now?” The movie was coming to a sweeping finale.
“Before the national anthem. Come on.”
She had a point. Staying bent over, Peter ducked into the aisle and followed Evelyn. As Americans, they weren’t required to sing “Deutschland über Alles” or the “Horst Wessel Song,” but he didn’t want to offend anyone by refraining.
In the lobby Evelyn started putting on her coat, and Peter helped her.
“That was the longest movie I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“It was.” Peter slipped on his own overcoat. Even with an intermission, three and a half hours gave the film a marathon-like feel appropriate for a movie about the 1936 Berlin Olympics. “I’m starved. Shall we get dinner? The Hofbräuhaus isn’t far.”
Evelyn’s chin jutted out. “I only accepted your invitation to the movie, not dinner.”
“And you only accepted so you could write an article about the movie. However”—he tapped his wristwatch—“it’s late. Do you want to cook dinner? I don’t. I’d rather have sausage and potato salad.”
She hesitated, then pressed a hand to her stomach. “I do like potato salad.”
“Great.” The triumphant strains of “Deutschland über Alles” poured from the theater. “If we hurry, we’ll beat the crowd.”
Outside, snowflakes dusted the night air. Talk of the unseasonal cold hovered on his tongue, but he wanted something deeper.
“You were very kind to get me the ticket.” Evelyn plunged her hands into her coat pockets. “ANS assigned me to cover the premiere, but when I couldn’t get tickets—well, you already heard me gripe about this.”
He chuckled. “Thank goodness you griped, or I wouldn’t have known. And thank goodness I went to the Students’ League meeting when they sold tickets.”
“The German Students’ League? You went to a meeting?” Evelyn’s eyes grew enormous.
“I’m not a member, if that’s what you were thinking. And you were.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “Do you blame me?”
He smiled back and led her across the street, his shoes crunching in the snow. “My friend Otto invited me. They want to learn about America. That’s part of the purpose of studying abroad.”
Snowflakes glittered on her dark gray hat. “What I wouldn’t give to attend. What a story. But I don’t suppose women are allowed.”
Peter grimaced. “Come to think of it, only men attend. But they mostly talk about classes.”
They reached the Hofbräuhaus, a Munich landmark. Traditional Bavarian music greeted them, the tuba and accordion leading the other instruments in frolicking tunes. Peter and Evelyn were led through the maze of rooms, under elaborate signs for the Stammtische, the tables reserved for regulars. Waiters in lederhosen and waitresses in dirndls carried platters of beer and savory food.
Their table stood by a tall arched window. After Peter hung their coats on hooks, they both ordered bratwurst, sauerkraut, potato salad, and coffee. It gave him hope that they could find other things to agree on. Although bantering with her was fun too.
Peter scooted his chair in. “The movie was incredible.”
“It was.” Evelyn adjusted the sleeves of her burgundy dress. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I looked for my friend Henning. He rowed for the Danish team, but he must not have been photogenic enough.”
“Henning?” She narrowed one eye. “One of your Hah-vahd friends?”
“Right.” He grinned at her Midwestern disdain for the Ivy League. “Did you get enough material for your article?”