She'd never forget the desolation in the gentleman's eyes. He'd reminded her of Grandpa Schmidt, who had been born Jewish. He'd converted to Christianity, but the Nazis wouldn't care. To them, Judaism was about race, not religion. If Grandpa hadn't come to America, he would have been forced to scrub sidewalks too.
"Please, Mr. Norwood," Evelyn said. "The story needs to be told. America needs to know. I owe it to him."
"The man on his knees." If Libby hadn't held her back, Evelyn would have rushed to his aid. And she would have failed, one woman against a mob.
"Fight with words," Libby had told her. "Your words have power."
Not if edited to death by George Norwood.
"Keep as much as you can, Mr. Norwood," Chase said. "And remember, Miss Brand, we American correspondents are guests of the German government. They don't censor us, but they do have limits."
"They certainly do." In other countries, correspondents wired their stories to the US. But the Nazis screened telegrams, and they only transmitted stories they liked. So American reporters usually phoned their stories to their London or Paris bureaus to be wired home.
Chase fished a cigarette case from inside his vest. "Never forget. You're not in the US."
Evelyn's shoulders slumped, but she rolled them straight again. "I know. No freedom of speech. No freedom of the press. No freedom of anything."
"Yes. So, what are you working on next?"
"I have an assignment for her." Norwood rummaged through a folder on his desk. "A feature on the American students at the University of Munich and their experiences here."
Evelyn tried to find a smile but failed. Another softball assignment.
Norwood handed her a slip of paper. "Peter Lang is one of my oldest and closest friends. We were roommates at Harvard, and his father served with mine in the House of Representatives. Peter's earning his doctorate in German."
Another East Coast prep school Hah-vahd man, like Norwood and Chase and every bigwig at ANS. Evelyn tucked the piece of paper into her purse.
"Lang can introduce you to the other American students. He's a fine fellow."
"Of course, he is." Somehow she kept the sarcasm from her voice.
Hamilton Chase stood. "I'm looking forward to that article."
"Thank you, sir." After she shook his hand, she went out into the newsroom full of clacking typewriters, lively banter, and the actual news.
This was where she belonged.
Even with all the huge stories happening around the world- the Great Depression, civil war in Spain, Japan's invasion of China, and Stalin's purge of tens of thousands of his own people—Berlin was every reporter's top choice. But Evelyn was exiled almost four hundred miles away in Munich writing softball stories.
"In trouble again, Brandy?" Frank Keller stopped typing and pointed his cigar at her. "You know what you need? A husband to keep you in line."
Exactly why she'd never marry. She hated lines.
Evelyn leaned against Keller's desk and batted her eyelashes at the pudgy, middle aged reporter. "Volunteering for the assignment?"
"Not on your life." His carriage return hit Evelyn in the hip.
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "My poor little heart is wounded."
Keller laughed. "Beat it, sister."
Gladly. Across the room, Mitch O'Hara beckoned to her.
She grinned and joined him at his desk.