“Goodness.” He’d heard much about her but hadn’t heard her play.
“Once again, I’m here to interview you. Name—Peter Lang. Age . . . ?”
“Twenty-seven.” He led her beside the elegant, cream-colored building. “Harvard class of ’33, bachelor’s in German, working on my PhD in German at Harvard. Arrived in Munich on March 8 for a year of teaching and research, studying under the esteemed Dr. Johannes Schreiber, who was my professor during my own junior year here from 1931 to ’32. Does that take care of your preliminary questions?”
Miss Brand scribbled frantically, either in shorthand or in atrociously bad handwriting. “I’m adding ‘thorough’ to my description of you. And ‘slightly impudent.’”
Why on earth did George dislike this woman? “Only slightly impudent? I’ll have to try harder. Next question, Fräulein?”
“Just . . . a . . . minute.” She continued to scribble. “Johannes Schneider?”
“Schreiber.” Peter inhaled the crisp air under the cloudy sky.
“All right, Mr. Lang. What has been your greatest challenge here?”
George had warned that Miss Brand was determined to paint Germany in a bad light and to not let her lead him down that path. He shrugged. “Finding a car to purchase.”
“A car?”
“I love to drive.”
“I thought you loved to walk.”
“Yes, and I like to drive places where I can go walking.” He pictured Miss Evelyn Brand beside him in his Opel Admiral convertible, a kerchief tying back her hair, as he sped down the Olympic Road to hike through the wonders of the Partnach Gorge.
“Mr. Lang?”
“Hmm?” Had she asked another question?
One corner of her mouth twitched. “I asked if you’d had any other difficulties. Other than listening, that is.”
They’d reached Ludwigstrasse. Peter turned left and led her down the street toward the Siegestor. He was certainly making a fine impression. “Difficulties? Can’t say I have. I’m fluent in German, and I’m familiar with the culture. Although everything’s vastly different from when I was here in ’32.”
“I can imagine. I’d ask more about that, but your return is rather recent.”
“Long enough to see.” Peter strolled down the clean street, past shiny cars and smiling students. Back in ’32, Germany had been mired in poverty and unemployment, the people demoralized, while communist mobs spread terror.
The Siegestor rose before him, the triumphal arch as solid and sure as Germany’s recovery, crowned by a statue of Bavaria, her chariot drawn by four lions.
Now in 1938, the rest of the world struggled with the Great Depression, with strikes and riots and despair. But Germany prospered, with no unemployment, the people happy and secure. For all of Hitler’s reputation in America as a clownish gangster, he’d turned the country around.
Miss Brand flipped a page in her notebook. “How is the university experience different from in the US?”
Peter tipped his hat to two female students. “It’s coed, for one. I like that.”
“Of course.”
“But the academic calendar confuses most Americans, with a winter semester running October through February and a summer semester April through July.”
“That is confusing.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Any problems with the German Students’ League?”
Fishing for criticism. Peter stifled a smile and led her onto the roundabout circling the Siegestor. “No problems at all.”
“I suppose teaching language wouldn’t violate Nazi policy. How about your experience living in Munich?”
“Wunderbar. Sausage, Bavarian sweet mustard, hiking, the opera.” An idea formed. “Although I haven’t heard Miss White perform.”
“You must. She’s incredible.”
“Aren’t you tired of hearing her play?”
“Never.” Miss Brand pushed a brown curl from her cheek, burnished red in the muted daylight. “I was practically raised at the symphony, so—”
“Wait. Brand? Chicago? You wouldn’t be related to Ernest Brand, the conductor?”
Her grin shone with pride. “My father.”
“Your . . .” Why, this woman only grew more interesting. “I took the train out to Chicago for one of his concerts.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that.”
His idea solidified. “Do you know when Miss White is performing next?”
“This Saturday.”
“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”
Miss Brand stopped and studied him, framed by the Siegestor’s central arch. “On one condition.”
“Anything,” he said, his hand to his heart.
“You need to be a good boy, stop getting distracted, and answer my questions.”
“I promise.” Although how on earth could he avoid getting distracted around such a fascinating creature?
THREE
MUNICH
THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 1938
“For someone who says she despises fashion, you have exquisite taste.” Libby White followed Evelyn out of the boutique on Maximilianstrasse.
“The higher the quality, the less often I have to go shopping.” Evelyn hitched her purse strap up on her shoulder. Thank goodness the shop would deliver the evening gown to her apartment so she wouldn’t have to lug it home.
Libby patted the coil of dark brown braids at the nape of her neck. “The gown is gorgeous. Your date will love it.”
Evelyn searched for their streetcar. Her date would probably like it very much. Peter Lang had looked at her with interest, which wouldn’t last once he got to know her. All for the best, and she smiled.
“Is he handsome?” Libby’s deep brown eyes fairly twinkled.
“No, but he isn’t unattractive. And his nose is crooked. I like that.”
Libby hooked her arm through Evelyn’s. “Have I mentioned how odd you are?”
“Not often enough. But Mr. Lang is clever and has a good sense of humor. He’ll be interesting company.”
“You do collect interesting people.”
“Like you.” Evelyn squeezed her friend’s arm.
Libby rolled her eyes, then brightened. “There’s our streetcar.”
They boarded, and Evelyn chose seats facing the center so she could watch and listen. She’d found good story ideas and sources while riding the streetcar.
Even better, a man one row back was probably Gestapo. Bland-looking man in a bland-looking suit, peering over a folded newspaper.
Evelyn choked back a laugh. The newspaper was upside down. Definitely Gestapo. Who was he watching? Or was he just scouting for leads as she was?
Closer to the front, two young men held on to overhead straps, and the taller boy grumbled in a low voice about his upcoming six months of compulsory labor service after he turned eighteen.
Not a low-enough voice. Such talk could land him in prison, and Evelyn had to help.
“I just love my new dress,” Evelyn said loudly and in English. Europeans thought Americans were boorish anyway.
Libby gave her a strange look. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”