“All right.” His sigh seemed to come from the tips of his toes. “If only I had a comrade to talk to, who shared my opinions. Then I would not feel alone. Surely you know others. I know you can’t give names, but if I knew where they worked, what they looked—”
“I’m sorry, but I must go home. My roommate will worry and call the police. Good night.”
“Gute Nacht, Fräulein.”
Evelyn followed the path out of the woods and through the gardens, dimly lit by streetlamps. If Ein Knopf was not Gestapo, he was certainly reporting to them. No dissident who wanted to keep his head attached to his body would ask for information on others. But it was typical for the Gestapo. She would not meet him again.
Although the temperature was above freezing for the first time in ages, Evelyn shivered. She scanned every shadow, every tree, every bush, acutely aware of how alone she was, how empty the paths.
What was wrong with her? She’d walked the streets of Chicago, New York, and Paris alone at night without a tremble. Journalism was no place for a woman who needed a big, strong man to feel safe.
And why did Peter Lang’s big, strong form flash through her mind? Evelyn walked faster and broke through to Mandlstrasse.
Even if she did want a man in her life, it wouldn’t be Peter. Sure, it was flattering how he asked her out every time he visited the café, how he keyed his date ideas to her interests. Sure, he received her polite refusals with amusement, almost as if he preferred a refusal to an acceptance. And sure, she was entranced when he talked, not just because of the pleasing shape of his lips, but how they moved with almost exaggerated precision, probably due to his research.
“For heaven’s sake.” Then she clamped her mouth shut. Talking to oneself in public wasn’t wise in a nation that prized physical and mental perfection. A nation that forcibly sterilized people with psychological disorders or hereditary diseases.
How could Peter approve of a single policy from such a regime? In that moment, all she wanted was to find him and have that spirited argument. And watch him speak.
If only Peter Lang’s opinions were as finely formed as his lips.
She groaned and turned onto Herzogstrasse. Even if his opinions were better formed, she knew better. She knew.
Peter might praise her independence at first. But so had Howard and Clark and Warren. Howard had called her lively, Clark amusing, Warren refreshing.
Then Howard asked if it would hurt her to wear something pretty and feminine for once. Then Clark said it embarrassed him when she challenged professors, although the male students did so all the time. Then Warren demanded dates when he knew she had deadlines, told her to put aside fantasies and stop pretending to be a man.
A stinging across her mouth, and she rubbed away the sensation, the memories. Never again would she let a man silence her.
Evelyn tromped up the steps in her apartment building. She was all sharp points, and when men failed to file down those points, they tried to break them off by force.
The scent of past-prime roses from Libby’s last performance greeted her.
Her roommate sat curled up with a book while the radio played Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. “You’re home late.”
“Met with a source.” Evelyn hung up her coat and hat.
“There’s potato soup on the stove.”
“Thanks, Lib. I’ll cook tomorrow.” She untied her black lace-up pumps and worked her toes into slippers.
“You received a letter from home.”
“Great.” Evelyn ladled a bowl of fragrant soup, sliced some rye bread, and sat at the table. A letter awaited—from Mother.
She opened it and set aside clippings of her articles. Mother took two subscriptions so she could keep one copy and send one to Evelyn.
News from home made her smile—Papa’s latest concert, Mother’s club happenings, her younger brother Roger’s college classes, her older sister Francie’s house decorating, and the antics of Francie’s darling children. For once, not a word asking when Evelyn would have a house to decorate or children to have antics.
She flipped the page.
I’m not surprised your cross was made in America. I’m only surprised Grandma Brand continues to tell that story.
As you know, my father was Jewish and became a Christian as a boy. My father was never ashamed of his heritage, unlike your father’s parents, who were also born Jewish.
Your Grandma Brand actually came from Russia. When her family was wiped out in a pogrom, she fled to Germany, where she met your grandfather and begged him to emigrate to America. Here they converted and were married in the church. She was terrified they might also be persecuted in the US, so they vowed to pretend they had always been Christian. Your grandmother bought that cross and told everyone it had been in the family for generations.
I’ve always thought the charade unnecessary, but I’ve followed your father’s wishes. However, I refuse to allow you to believe a lie at your age.
Evelyn laid down the letter. “I’m three-quarters Jewish.”
“Hmm?” Libby raised her head from her book. “I thought you were one-quarter.”
“So did I.” She read that part of the letter to Libby.
Her roommate’s face grew pensive. “Your poor grandmother. Imagine losing your whole family. Imagine being so afraid that you’d give up everything you knew and believed.”
“I can imagine.” Evelyn rolled her fingers around the cross at her neck. All through Germany and Austria, Jews were converting. Since many nations only granted visas to Jews with baptismal certificates, they saw conversion as a chance to escape.
The fullness of the meaning of it all wormed into her stomach and slithered there. “If I—if I weren’t an American citizen, the antisemitic laws would apply to me.”
Libby’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”
To distract herself, Evelyn folded the letter and picked up the newspaper clippings—her article from the Anschluss in Vienna and her article about the students. Both had run!
She dashed to her desk. She liked to compare her original articles to the printed versions to see how they were edited. Sometimes cuts were made for the sake of space, but many changes were stylistic. Evelyn wanted to improve her writing and adapt to ANS style.
She scanned the Anschluss article. As she’d feared, Norwood had cut the story of the Jews forced to scrub sidewalks. Even worse, the article read as if Evelyn were reporting on a Christmas parade. He’d even changed “blood-red swastika flags dripped from every pole and balcony” to “crimson banners waved.”
“For heaven’s sake.” She picked up the article on the exchange students. All reports of misgivings or disapproval were absent—although Evelyn had written subtly. Only the glowing reports remained.
And what? Evelyn gasped. She’d written, “When asked if they’d observed any persecution of the Jews, two students said they had and the others said they hadn’t.” Norwood had changed it to “When asked if he’d observed any persecution of the Jews, graduate student Mr. Peter Lang said he hadn’t and had heard no complaints.”
“What!” Evelyn shoved back her chair. “How could he? I didn’t even ask Peter that question. For a reason. He’d only been in Germany two weeks. Norwood’s making things up.”