He wiped his sugar-powdered fingers on his napkin. What had he said or done? He’d never been smooth, but he’d had his fair share of romances.
Peter stroked the walnut-brown leather of his attaché case, opened it, and pulled out the quizzes from the first day of class. The quizzes wouldn’t count toward grades, but they’d show him what the students already knew.
A pause in the typing, then a frenzied outburst.
When had things changed with Evelyn? Peter took another bite of the Bavarian donut. He’d noticed a distinct chill after the concert. They hadn’t talked during the performance, of course.
Intermission? They hadn’t talked much. Evelyn had excused herself to the ladies’ room, and Peter had chatted with the Schreibers until she returned right at the end of intermission.
Something he’d said? Something about Aubrey or Paris or the communists?
He ventured a glance in her direction. A red purse hung from her chair. Every time he’d seen her, she’d worn something red.
Peter grinned, feeling like a schoolboy about to tug a girl’s braids. Instead, he tugged the purse strap. “Is the red a fashion statement or a political one?”
She glanced down at her purse, and she chuckled, low and resonant. “You think because I’m a reporter, I’m a communist.” She mouthed the word silently.
“Are you?”
“I assure you, Mr. Lang, I am not. My views are traditionally American, based on freedom. Freedom of speech. Freedom of the press. Freedom of assembly. Freedom of religion.”
“Very patriotic.” He sipped more coffee.
“You said you were a churchgoing man, so you must have some respect for Christian values like liberty and mercy, values I cherish.”
“I do. I also have respect for the Christian values of law and justice and order.”
A spark lit Evelyn’s eyes and smile. “The purpose of the law is to preserve freedom.”
Peter shook his head. She hadn’t been there. She didn’t know. “It’s to limit freedom. Without order, freedom leads to chaos and destruction. It leads to mobs, rioting, murder.”
“Your father.”
Peter sucked in a sharp breath.
She lowered her head. “I’m sorry, but he was a public figure. I called the bureau, and they wired me an article about his death.”
His vision darkened, and he forced himself to breathe. “Did—did the article mention his son was present?”
Now she sucked in a loud breath. “You?”
Peter sorted the quizzes into alphabetical order by student last name. “I was home for the summer after I received my bachelor’s. My father asked me to accompany him to the factory. The communists had taken over the union, the workers were striking, and Father wanted me to learn about negotiation. Except you can’t negotiate with unreasonable and violent men.”
Townsend’s quiz went after Schultz, before Wechsler. “They wouldn’t even listen to my father’s offers. They shouted him down. He saw it was useless and tried to leave. That’s when they started hitting him.”
“Oh dear,” Evelyn said.
“I tried to help, but they—” He touched his nose, the sharp angle to it, then back to sorting. “They punched me, knocked me down, held me back. I—I had to watch as . . .”
“I am so sorry.” Evelyn’s voice quivered. “How awful for you.”
Peter tapped the stack of papers on the table to straighten it, then lifted his red pencil and bent over the first quiz. “You have work to do, and so do I.”
A long pause, and typewriter keys tapped, but slowly.
Peter crossed out a der and changed it to die, corrected the declension of the adjective, but then he set down his pencil. It wasn’t fair to the students to analyze their work when he was agitated.
Mutti’s letter. He still hadn’t read it, and he pulled it from a pocket in the lid of his attaché case. It started “Mein lieber Peter.” Of her four sons, Peter loved the language most, so Mutti always wrote him in German.
My dear Peter,
Tomorrow I will write with news from home and pleasant things, and I will ask about your studies and your life in my beloved city of München.
But today I write what is on my heart, what I’ve prayed about for weeks.
My dear Peter, of all my sons, you were the one with the sweetest heart. You were the boy who couldn’t stand to see his mother mocked for being German and who taught me how to speak like the other mothers. You were the first to help when anyone was hurt, the first to speak up when anyone was wronged, the first to step in when anyone needed assistance.
I write this with tears in my eyes because I write in the past tense.
You have changed since your father’s death. Naturally, the loss of such a great man has affected us all. Your older brothers have had to assume his roles in Congress and the company, and I have had to learn to live without the man I love. But you, my Peter, have changed the most.
I have seen a hardening in you due to unforgiveness.
My darling Peter, I have forgiven those men for what they did to your father and to you. I have done this out of love for my Lord. Was my sin not also responsible for the blows that rained down on my Savior’s precious head?
As the Lord has forgiven me, I have forgiven those men. I pray you will too and will rediscover compassion and mercy.
Peter pulled off his glasses and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. Compassion and mercy? Compassion drove Father to make generous offers to his workers. Mercy urged him to negotiate even after the men turned violent.
Forgiveness? He’d consider it when those murderers were locked behind bars.
“Mr. Lang?” Evelyn stood before his table, typewriter case in hand. When had she packed?
Peter put on his glasses, worked up a smile, and stood. “Leaving?”
She smiled back, soft and tentative. “I have an appointment. I hope you liked my café.”
“I do. It’s . . . gemütlich.”
“It is.” She extended her hand. “Good-bye.”
He shook her hand, then returned to his seat and stared at the letter and quizzes. A brisk walk to strengthen body, mind, and soul—that’s what he needed.
Herr Gold came out with a tray and collected Evelyn’s cup and saucer. “She will not be easily won.”
Peter’s mouth drifted open. Was he that transparent? Of course, he was.
Herr Gold pointed a finger and a smile at Peter. “Those are the women most worth winning.”
“Ja.” Peter put away his papers and laid out his payment and a tip that more than covered the cost of the Krapfen as well.
Between his memories and Mutti’s letter, the last thing he needed in his addled brain was romance.
SIX
SUNDAY, APRIL 10, 1938
Snow in April and on a day when Evelyn had a chance to get a story. She stamped her feet on the sidewalk outside the church the government had commandeered as a polling place—on a Sunday, no less.
Three women walked out, and Evelyn approached with her notepad. “Guten Morgen. I’m Evelyn Brand with the American News Service. May I interview you about the plebiscite?”
“For America?” A white-haired woman smiled up at her from under a fur-trimmed hat. “Ach, how exciting.”