“Perhaps your dissertation could focus on the phonetic differences between the regions of Germany.” Professor Schreiber stood and tugged down his suit vest.
Peter rubbed his hands together to remove the chalk dust. He’d dedicated his life to this work since the age of twelve, including almost five years of graduate research. To start in a new direction? A topic he had no passion for? A subject that would have no effect on the world?
Absolutely not.
He straightened his shoulders. “Thank you, but the German department at Harvard approved my topic, and I’ve already started my dissertation.” If Dr. Schreiber withheld his approval . . .
The professor went to the window. “Do not be inflexible, Peter. When the storm comes, the reed bends but the stick breaks.”
Peter picked up his attaché case. “A thin, weak stick perhaps, but not a thick, strong rod.”
Dr. Schreiber gazed into the tree-filled courtyard flooded with morning sunshine. “Many thick, strong rods have fallen.”
“What do you mean?”
The professor raised a sudden smile. “Auf Wiedersehen. Until Monday.”
“Until Monday.” Peter followed him out of the classroom, then turned toward his office to review his lesson plans for the first week of classes.
“Peter!” Fellow graduate student Otto von Albrecht jogged down the hall in the brown uniform of the National Socialist German Students’ League.
“Guten Morgen, Otto.” Peter preferred to offer the first greeting to remind his friends that as an American he wasn’t required to give the “Heil, Hitler” greeting and salute.
Otto gave the greeting anyway. “Do you want to go skiing this weekend?”
“You know I would, but I have tickets to the symphony.” And a date with an intriguing woman.
“Too bad. We’ll miss you.” Otto raked back the lock of light brown hair determined to reside between his eyebrows. “Are you free Monday evening? I’d like you to meet the fellows in the Students’ League. They want to learn about life in America.”
Peter had been warned about fanatics in the League, but Otto was a good egg. Besides, one of the purposes of studying abroad was to teach Germans about America and foster goodwill between the nations. “I’d like that.”
“Wunderbar.” Otto raised the stiff-armed salute and jogged away.
Peter smiled as he returned to his office. This was shaping up to be an interesting year.
FOUR
SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1938
After a pat to the ruby-studded comb in her hair, Evelyn opened her apartment door. “Good evening, Mr. Lang.”
“Good evening, Miss Brand.” He wore white tie attire with a top hat in his white-gloved hands, and a slow sweep of his gaze led to a slow smile. “You look . . . radiant.”
“Thank you. Please come in while I fetch my things.” She stepped inside, the silver brocade brushing her ankles.
Peter Lang didn’t look half-bad himself. The black cutaway coat accentuated his tall, athletic build, and his wavy blond hair shone.
“That dress is stunning,” he said. “And please call me Peter.”
“Thank you. Please call me Evelyn.” She transferred items from her daytime black leather handbag to a red satin clutch, cramming her smallest notebook inside.
She’d enjoy his appreciative looks and words while they lasted. The first date eliminated men who didn’t like intelligent women. The second date weeded out those who assumed a modern career woman had loose morals. On the third date, if the man hadn’t realized Evelyn was too much to handle, she helped him figure it out.
“Is this where you work?” Peter frowned at her Smith-Corona typewriter and the papers strewn about.
Perhaps she should have picked up, but she refused to hide who she was even to get a full three dates from a man.
“Yes.” She pulled on long white gloves. “But when Libby’s not home, it’s too quiet, and I work at a darling café on Gärtnerplatz.”
Evelyn reached for the cape draped over her desk chair.
Peter laid it around her shoulders, then he held open the door.
“Thank you.” She descended the stairs and stepped out into the chilly evening, the smell of spent rain in the air. A black cab awaited. “I’d hoped you’d bring that car you’re so fond of.”
“I would have if I knew I could find parking on Türkenstrasse.” He opened the cab door for her.
Evelyn slid in and gathered her skirts inside.
Peter circled to the other door, climbed in, and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Das Tonhalle, bitte.”
He settled back in the seat with his top hat in his lap. “With a conductor for a father, you must have had musical training.”
Her cape pulled across her throat, and she adjusted it. “I play the viola, but not well. I have no patience for scales.”
The cab passed a streetlamp, which illuminated Peter’s amused expression. “I played the cello and not well at all. But I did enjoy it.”
“That’s what matters.”
“Did your father want you to follow in his footsteps?”
“At first.” Evelyn shrugged. “Then I told him words are my music. He understood, and now he’s my greatest champion.”
“Good. My father supported my goals too.”
He spoke in the past tense, and his wistful tone hinted at a story. But Evelyn buttoned her lips. This was a date, not an interview.
“Speaking of your musical words, how is your article on the students coming along?”
“Good. I’ve interviewed a dozen students, and I hope to interview a few more.” Surely she could find one student who’d seen past the shiny façade of Nazi prosperity to the darkness underneath. Although the juniors had been in Munich since September, all were bewitched.
“Is that why you agreed to come tonight? Follow-up questions?” A teasing note lifted his voice.
“Oh no. I’m afraid I extracted every interesting morsel from you.”
He heaved a sigh. “I tried to manufacture a scandal but failed.”
“Perhaps you could have an affair with the wife of a Nazi bigwig.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid I’m the chivalrous, churchgoing sort.”
Like Evelyn’s father, brother, and grandfathers—a good sort. Evelyn played along and heaved her own sigh. “Too bad. How about theft? Murder?”
“What’s the story, dollface?” He affected a gangster voice. “Who do you want me to knock off? Say the word and—” He snapped his fingers.
Evelyn couldn’t resist. “George Norwood?”
Peter broke out laughing. “He’s my oldest friend.”
“Very well, but it sure would help my career.”
“He warned me about you. I should have listened.”
Somehow the warmth in his voice melted her more than a hundred compliments would have. For one moment she pictured a fourth date. A good-night kiss.
Who was she kidding? Next thing she knew, he’d be ordering her to wear florals and to stop speaking her mind on unfeminine topics like current events.
The cab arrived at the Tonhalle, and Peter helped her out and offered an arm sturdier than expected from a professor-in-training. With her free hand, Evelyn lifted her skirts so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face climbing the steps.