“The instant I saw that silver brocade, I fell in love. I adore how the bodice is gathered on the sides. What did you call it? Ruching?”
“Yes, ruching.” Libby’s forehead rippled, imitating the ruching.
But it worked. Mr. Gestapo’s gaze swung from the boys to Evelyn.
“That silver.” Evelyn raised wiggling fingers in glee as she’d seen other women do. “Oh my! It’ll look stunning with my rubies. I have the perfect shoes. Maybe that little red satin bag. Or would that be too much?”
“I . . . I think . . .”
“And red lipstick—oh no, that’s right. Lipstick is forbidden in Germany, isn’t it?”
The streetcar stopped, the two young men exited, and Mr. Gestapo sprang to his feet.
Evelyn bolted up, grabbed Libby’s hand, and aimed her backside to block the secret policeman’s path. “I saw another shop I simply must visit.”
Libby had been tricked into enough adventures to recognize Evelyn was up to no good. Despite that, she followed. “Then visit it we must.”
Evelyn strolled down the aisle and stopped at the foot of the steps. A quick scan for the boys, of the shops, of the sidewalk. “That jewelry store is divine.”
Mr. Gestapo cleared his throat behind her.
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn said in loud English, like a typical American tourist who thought volume could crush language barriers. Then she meandered down the sidewalk under the chestnut trees, dividing the space between Libby and the storefronts. She spread her arms wide. “I love how the skirt twirls, don’t you?”
“Entschuldigung.” Mr. Gestapo tried to get around her.
Evelyn spun and stood in front of him. “Ent-shoo—I know that word. It means ‘excuse me,’ right?”
“Yes,” Libby said. “Yes, it does.”
Evelyn clapped her hand to her cheek. “Oh! Am I in your way, sir? I am. I’m sorry. Ess tut mer lide.” She deliberately mangled the phrase “Es tut mir leid.”
“Ess toot meer light,” Libby said as if correcting a child.
“Ess toot meer light. Oh! I’m still in your way.” Evelyn stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Herr—sir—how do you say it?”
Mr. Gestapo strode a few paces, but the boys were gone. His shoulders sagged.
Evelyn pulled Libby into the jewelry store.
“What was that about?”
Evelyn glanced out the window. “He’s Gestapo.”
“What? Evelyn!”
“He’s harmless to us, but not to those boys grumbling about labor service.”
“Oh.” Libby peered out the window too. “Did they get away?”
“Yes, thank goodness. What a horrid country if you can be arrested for grumbling.”
Libby blew out a long breath and frowned at Evelyn. “You take too many chances.”
“Only to help someone or to get a story. And God will keep me safe.”
Libby’s eyebrows rose higher than notes from her flute.
“Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.” Evelyn gave her friend a saucy smile. “He’ll help me find a way to get the truth, and he’ll keep me alive.”
A laugh sputtered out. “That isn’t what the verse means, and you know it.”
Yes, but Evelyn liked her version.
“Darf ich Ihnen helfen?” A portly dark-haired man called from across the counter.
“Nein, danke.” Evelyn smiled at the jeweler, but then she fingered the gold cross around her neck. “Actually, would you be able to tell me about my cross? My grandmother is German, and she went to America in the 1880s. The cross has been in the family for generations.”
His eyes lit up. “May I see?”
“Ja, bitte.” Evelyn undid the clasp and laid the cross before the jeweler.
He inspected it with his jeweler’s loupe, murmuring as he worked. “Beautiful, but it is not German.”
“It isn’t?” Perhaps Grandma Brand’s family had come from another country before settling in Germany. She never talked about her life in Europe.
“Nein.” He pointed to a mark on the back of the cross. “It is American.”
“It is?”
“Ja, and it is not old. This baroque style was fashionable in the 1880s.”
“Grandma lied to me?”
Libby laughed. “Why are you smiling about that?”
“Because that means I’ve found a story.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 1, 1938
Peter pointed to the sentence on the blackboard—“The water is wide.”
“Da oo-ater is oo-ide.” In the front row of the classroom, seventeen-year-old Hans-Jürgen Schreiber concentrated on his pronunciation.
“Much better.” English had many difficult sounds for the native German speaker, but the w and th sounds topped the list. After only one hour, Peter had cured Hans-Jürgen of saying “vide,” and soon he’d coach the “oo-ide” to “wide.”
Peter wrote more phrases on the board. “Write these down and practice. Don’t worry about any sound except the w for now.”
Hans-Jürgen groaned and stretched gangly limbs clad in the black shorts and long-sleeved tan shirt of the Hitler Youth. “Ich habe kein—”
“In English,” Peter said with a smile.
“I have no time to practice. We must stay after school every day for physical conditioning, and every Wednesday night and every Sunday are for the Hitlerjugend.”
In the seat next to his son, Professor Schreiber frowned. “Hans-Jürgen.”
“I know, Vati, but it is difficult to study for school, and I have no time to read.”
Since membership in the Hitler Youth was practically mandatory, the boy needed encouragement. Peter sat on his other side. “You get to camp and hike and play sports, right? That’s good.”
The boy lowered his blond head, and his eyes darkened. “I do not want to be a soldier. I want to be a professor of mathematics.”
Peter crossed his arms. “When I was your age, I stayed inside and read. I didn’t play sports, and I was skinny and weak.”
Professor Schreiber peered around his son and chuckled. “You were still skinny when I met you.”
Hans-Jürgen stared at Peter’s arms. “You are not skinny now.”
The cords in Peter’s neck tightened. Not since that day in 1933. “One day I learned why it isn’t good to be weak, and I decided to be strong of both mind and body. A strong body helps the brain work better. Verstehst du?”
“Ja, ich verstehe.” Something in the boy’s light eyes said he did indeed understand.
Professor Schreiber glanced at his watch. “It is time for your meeting.”
Hans-Jürgen stood and grabbed a rucksack from under his seat. “Ja, hiking and the rifle range. I shall exercise my love of mathematics by calculating my rate of fire—while exercising my body.” He grinned at Peter.
After Hans-Jürgen left, Peter wiped down the blackboard. “He is improving.”
“Yes, but you give him private lessons,” Professor Schreiber said. “I do not see how your techniques will work for larger groups.”
Peter’s shoulders stiffened. Such a small influence to have. His father had wielded great influence in the House of Representatives and in his business, an influence adopted by Peter’s brothers—and expanded. They could reach the nation through their work. Peter couldn’t.