“Yes, and I figured out my angle.”
“Angle?”
Evelyn rested her forearms on the table and leaned closer, lowering her voice. “As a guest, I have to be careful not to insult my hosts, or I’ll be escorted out of the house. Gemütlichkeit has limits.”
One day at the café, she’d mentioned the risk of getting expelled. “How would . . . our hosts know what you’ve written?”
“The embassy in DC reads our newspapers.” Evelyn shot a furtive glance at a long table, where a group of older men raised beer steins and sang “Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen.”
With the boisterous music and conversation in the room, Evelyn had no need to worry about anyone listening, but Peter leaned in, more than willing to play her game of low voices and code words. Anything to study her face at close range. “All right, but when your hostess serves a tasty dessert of a movie, how can any guest find fault?”
“No faults to report.” Thick dark lashes swept over her brown eyes. “I can honestly praise the beauty of the production, the innovative camera angles, the splendor, all that.”
“It was gorgeous.” So was Evelyn, in her own unique way.
“But it was also about subverting the individual to the will of the community. About conformity and uniformity.”
Peter tilted his head. Perhaps some saw it that way. He hadn’t.
“That’s my angle.” She patted the table. “Phrases like uniformity and the loss of individuality will please our hosts. They cherish those values. But the phrases will have the opposite effect at home. What do Americans fear most? Loss of freedom. Loss of individuality. After all, what’s our founding document? The Declaration of Independence.”
Peter tipped his glasses higher and smiled. “‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.’ We’re more than individuals. We’re a group.”
“A union of individuals.”
“Yes, but a union of individuals, bound in community. Besides, community is a Christian concept. The body of believers.”
“True.” Evelyn rested her chin on her palm with a spark in her eyes. “Yet our hosts destroy church communities—Catholic and Protestant alike. They’ve arrested hundreds of priests and pastors—especially in the Confessing Church. Men who preach the Bible instead of Party doctrine—like Martin Niemöller.” She whispered the name.
Peter frowned at the red-and-white print tablecloth. He’d heard about Niemöller. And Otto had told him the official German church rejected the Old Testament and the Apostle Paul’s writings as too Jewish. They even preached an Aryan Jesus. That all bothered Peter . . . deeply.
“Our hosts put the Party above the Lord, a political leader above the Lord.” Evelyn’s voice barely crossed the divide between them. “And look how they treat God’s chosen people.”
He raised a heavy head and met her gaze. “I don’t agree with that. Not at all. No one should be treated unfairly due to his race.”
Evelyn’s face sobered. “We’ve found something we agree on.”
“Yes.” He drew in a deep breath. “But I wouldn’t worry. It’s a passing phase.”
She blinked rapidly. “A passing phase?”
“Germany has had difficult times, and in difficult times people seek scapegoats. It’s wrong, but it happens. It happens in America too.”
Her brows bunched together. “That’s true.”
“Now that prosperity has returned to this land, they’ll stop seeking scapegoats and the pressure will ease.”
“I hope you’re right. But our hosts have given up so much freedom in exchange for that prosperity. Where do you draw the line?”
Peter clenched his hands together on the table. Where did he draw the line?
Evelyn grabbed her purse and dug around inside. “How did Roosevelt word it?”
“Roosevelt?”
“He gave a Fireside Chat last week to reassure people about the latest economic setback. You wouldn’t have read it—the German papers are censored—but the bureau gets reports straight from New York.” She pulled out a notebook.
Peter smiled. “I read an article about that speech in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten.”
“Only the parts approved by Joseph Goebbels’s Ministry of Propaganda.” She flipped a page. “Here we go. The president said, ‘Democracy has disappeared in several other great nations—disappeared not because the people of those nations disliked democracy, but because they had grown tired of unemployment and insecurity, of seeing their children hungry while they sat helpless in the face of government confusion, government weakness—weakness through lack of leadership in government. Finally, in desperation, they chose to sacrifice liberty in the hope of getting something to eat.’”
The waitress came over with plates heaping with food, and the steam wafted tantalizing scents into Peter’s nose.
After the waitress left, Evelyn pulled the pot of Bavarian sweet mustard close and slathered some on her bratwurst. “What do you think of that quote, Mr. Lang?”
“I think you should be careful, Miss Brand.” He aimed a mock stern look at her. “Careful not to put a political leader above the Lord.”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing, right in time with the accordion.
Peter grinned and scooped a forkful of potato salad into his mouth, pungent with vinegar. Herr Gold was right. She was worth the winning.
EIGHT
FRIDAY, APRIL 29, 1938
Tobacco-scented words drifted to Evelyn through the moonless night in a wooded area in the English Garden. “Almost a hundred men from Munich hauled to Dachau for being beggars or ‘work shy.’ The Nazis have gone too far.”
This was the third time Evelyn had met this informant, a member of the “Kripo,” the criminal police, as opposed to the Gestapo, the state police. Or so he said.
His previous tips had proven correct, although not enough for a story, Norwood said.
“You must write this. We were ordered to arrest fifteen hundred men throughout the Reich.”
“I’ll do what I can, mein Herr.” But she didn’t completely trust this man she’d dubbed “Ein Knopf”—“one button”—for his habit of buttoning only the top button of his overcoat. He was either too cheap or too vain to buy the larger size needed to accommodate his belly.
“You can verify with your other sources, right? Surely you speak to others in the Kripo.”
Her guard went up. “I speak to all sorts of people.”
“Anyone in the Kripo? I would be glad to meet like-minded men.”
That guard sounded the alarm, but she schooled her voice to a sympathetic tone. “I can’t reveal my sources.”
“I understand.” Cigar smoke wafted her way. “The Nazis are cruel to those who oppose them. So cruel.”
Evelyn knew better than to agree or disagree. She just took notes. “Do you have any other information?”
“Not today, but let’s walk. It is good to speak freely.”
More alarms rang. Her other sources spent as little time with her as possible. “I understand, but it’s late and my roommate is holding dinner for me.”