Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

“Then why don’t you let Papa find you a job at the bank? Why don’t you move back home before you use up all your savings?”

  “Why not indeed?” said their mother.

  “What if you need that money to—” Sara could not bring herself to say that he might need it to emigrate. “For something important?”

  Natan rested his elbows on the table and looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t worry about me. I pick up odd jobs here and there. I’ll be fine.” His gaze shifted to his parents. “I promise that if the choice is move back home or starve, you’ll find me back in my old room in a heartbeat.”

  Sara had to accept that, but it frustrated and angered her that he had to resort to odd jobs while someone more Aryan sat in his old office doing his work half as well.

  Winter faded and spring bloomed, green and fresh, the days gently sunny and warm, belying the political tempest raging through Berlin. Sara and Dieter once again walked hand in hand through the Tiergarten, avoiding political topics because Dieter did not like to see her upset over things she could not change and Sara did not think he took current events seriously enough.

  In April, the brilliance of the lush, verdant spring diminished as seasonal rain showers held off and temperatures climbed. At the end of the month, as foliage withered in the Tiergarten and grasses faded to brown, Reich officials revealed that President Hindenburg was gravely ill and was not expected to survive the summer. Immediately the question of who would succeed him became an urgent matter. Natan thought that Chancellor Hitler was the strongest contender for the role, but he faced a formidable challenge from his erstwhile friend Captain Ernst Röhm, the head of the Sturmabteilung. The Brownshirts had increased in number so rapidly that Röhm now commanded more storm troopers than were in the entire Reichswehr, which the Treaty of Versailles limited to one hundred thousand troops. If Hitler defied the treaty, as he seemed eager to do, he would gain parity of numbers with Röhm, since the army was controlled by the defense minister, a loyal member of his cabinet.

  “According to my sources,” Natan told Sara in mid-May over a lunchtime picnic of sandwiches made from leftovers from the Weitz family’s supper, “Röhm has told a number of foreign diplomats that he wants to incorporate the Sturmabteilung into the Reichswehr, with himself in charge of the new, unified military. Captain Röhm already has many enemies, and he seems determined to make another of Hitler.”

  “You still have sources?” asked Sara. “You didn’t have to turn them over to your replacement?”

  “Dressler can find his own sources.”

  “How do you think it will end?” asked Sara, trying to sound less anxious than she really felt. If Natan suspected his reports frightened her, he might stop sharing them. “Is there a chance that they might fight and bring each other down?”

  “It’s more likely that one man will destroy the other.” He finished his sandwich and brushed crumbs from his fingertips. “As long as Hindenburg is at least nominally in charge, I still have hope for Germany.”

  As the drought persisted into summer and concerns rose that the year’s harvest might be lost, gossip about conflicts in the Nazi hierarchy flew through Berlin. One compelling rumor said that President Hindenburg blamed Hitler for the rising tensions in Germany and that his downfall was imminent, prompting debate about who might replace him—perhaps Heinrich Brüning or General Kurt von Schleicher, both former chancellors. Another, more foreboding rumor insisted that Hitler could be neither uprooted nor constrained, and that he was merely waiting for an opportune moment to crush Röhm and remove the threat of his SA once and for all.

  Dieter remained resolutely neutral, noting that his business’s clientele came from all walks of life and he could not afford to offend anyone by publicly siding with one faction or another. Sara chided him that when something was demonstrably morally wrong, one had an obligation to disavow it. Her words had little effect. Dieter was so determined to see the virtues of every group that Sara gave up trying to discuss anything with him other than the weather, their family and mutual friends, and his business.

  Even their engagement became an uncomfortable subject. Every time Sara brought up unresolved issues, such as what to do about their children’s religious upbringing and how to handle his mother’s increasingly querulous inquiries about Sara’s interest in converting, he would either list a variety of valid opinions without clarifying his own or defer the discussion for another day. She would have suspected that his interest in marriage was waning if not for his increasing ardor when they were alone. At first she enjoyed it, but when he began urging her to go further than she wanted, murmuring breathlessly between kisses that they were going to be married anyway so there was no reason to refrain, and he didn’t need her to be a virgin on their wedding night as long as he was the only man she had been with, she became annoyed and unhappy. What if she got pregnant? What if something happened and they didn’t marry after all? He assured her nothing would go awry, but the world was veering sharply toward the wrong and no one knew for certain what the future would bring. She still loved Dieter, but she found guilty comfort in their decision not to marry until she finished her education, and in the fact that it took years to earn a doctorate.

  With Dieter proving a poor conversationalist, Sara relied on Mildred’s study group for engrossing political conversation, Amalie for long heart-to-heart talks about her hopes for the future. But for someone without a job, Natan was curiously unavailable. He still met Sara for weekly lunches, but he stopped coming around for breakfast and declined an invitation to spend a weekend with the family at Amalie and Wilhelm’s estate in Minden-Lübbecke. Then, one Wednesday in late June, Natan failed to show up for their weekly lunch, and the following Saturday, he did not come home for Shabbat.

  “He always lets me know if he has to cancel,” Sara’s mother said, a deep groove of worry appearing between her brows.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” said Sara’s father. “Perhaps something came up at the last minute.”

  “Perhaps he’s met a nice young woman, and he’s celebrating Shabbat with her family tonight,” said Amalie, smiling brightly for her daughters. Sylvie and Leah smiled back, but Sara knew no one else at the table believed it.

  The next morning, when Natan did not answer his phone, Sara decided to go see him. The Untergrundbahn seemed to make the trip across the city more slowly than it ever had, but eventually Sara was racing up the stairs to Natan’s flat, knocking on the door, and calling his name.

  He did not answer.

  She tried again, and when he did not reply, she checked under the loose piece of carpet below the door hinge for his spare key. It was gone. Heart pounding, she peered through the mail slot and saw a few envelopes scattered in the entry.

  She rose, thoughts racing. Many of his friends had emigrated, and she was not sure how to reach those who remained.

  Then she realized exactly where to start searching.

  Fifteen minutes later, she arrived at the offices of the Berliner Tageblatt. She had visited Natan at work frequently through the years, but she did not recognize the pretty young blonde sitting at the receptionist’s desk. “I beg your pardon,” Sara asked, as calmly as she could. “Is Natan Weitz in today?”

  The young woman frowned, thoughtful. “I don’t believe he works here anymore.”

  “Perhaps he’s here visiting a friend.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see him come in.”

  Sara searched her memory. “Is his boss here? Simon Auerbach?”

  “Herr Auerbach resigned two weeks ago.”

  “Would you phone him for me, please?” Sara heard the rising panic in her voice and took a deep breath. “Or give me his number and I’ll call him from home? Whatever is easier for you.”

  “I’m sorry, but he moved to Canada. I could give you his address—”

  “No, thank you.” Then a thought struck. “Konrad Dressler. May I speak with Konrad Dressler?”

  “Miss Weitz?”

  Turni
ng, Sara discovered a trim man in a fine suit studying her with concern. “Yes?”

  He shook her hand. “Karl Meinholz, senior editor.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Natan had always spoken well of him. “I’m looking for my brother. Have you seen him recently?”

  In reply, Meinholz invited Sara to accompany him to his office. She accepted the chair he offered, but before she could say anything, he held up a finger, shut the door, and sat down behind his desk. Only then did he speak. “I regret that Natan Weitz is no longer on the staff of the Berliner Tageblatt. That would be against the law.”

  “Yes, I know, but Natan has so many friends here, and I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  His brow furrowed. “When he stopped coming around, I assumed he had left Germany.”

  “Natan has no intention of leaving. I last saw him almost two weeks ago. He isn’t at his apartment, and he isn’t answering his phone. That’s why I came here, to see if any of his friends know where he is.”

  “You asked to see Konrad Dressler.”

  She nodded. “Natan mentioned him, and I know he still works here.”

  “Miss Weitz—” Meinholz paused. “There is no Konrad Dressler.”

  “But I’ve seen his byline.”

  “Yes, his byline, but your brother’s words.”

  “You mean . . .” Sara studied him. “My brother is Konrad Dressler?”

  Meinholz nodded.

  “Then Natan violated the Editors Law. If the Gestapo figured it out—”

  “No one here would have breathed a word,” Meinholz assured her. “Betraying him would put us all in danger.”

  But a jealous rival could have informed on Natan nonetheless, or the Gestapo could have found out another way. They could have followed him from his flat to work, or recognized his writing style. Regardless, he had broken the law and had put himself in terrible danger.

  Sara murmured her thanks and quickly left Meinholz’s office. She ran back to Natan’s flat, tried the door again, roused his landlord, and convinced him to unlock the door for her. She was afraid to ask if anyone else had come by looking for Natan—Gestapo or Brownshirts or police.

  The landlord fumbled with the key in the lock, but eventually he opened the door and waved her inside. The spare key sat on the table in the entryway.

  “Thank you,” she said, managing a shaky smile as she stooped to pick up Natan’s scattered mail. “I’ll lock up when I go.”

  Grumbling, he left her. Immediately she closed and locked the door.

  She left the mail beside the key on the table and searched the flat. The bed was made. Breakfast dishes were piled in the sink. A hand towel near the washbasin was perfectly dry. The air was still and stale, the plants on the windowsill unwatered. Natan’s suitcase sat on the floor of his closet beneath a half-full laundry basket.

  Natan was gone, but if he had fled Germany, he had told no one and had taken nothing with him.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  June–July 1934

  Martha

  Early on the morning of Saturday, June 30, Martha gave her father a jaunty wave and her mother a quick peck on the cheek before snatching up her bag and her wide-brimmed hat and darting out the door to meet Boris, who was waiting in the driveway at the wheel of his Ford convertible with the top down. “Shall we go?” she asked as she climbed in and slung her bag into the back next to a folded blanket and a picnic hamper. She slipped on her sunglasses and considered putting on the hat too, but she tossed it on top of her bag instead, the better to enjoy the wind in her hair.

  Boris started the car, a corner of his mouth turning inquisitively. “You hope to make a quick getaway before your parents discover who is driving away with their daughter?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She had confessed that she was seeing Boris shortly after her strange date with Chancellor Hitler. There was already too much deceit poisoning the world. “They know I’m with you.”

  “And they still let you leave?”

  Martha laughed lightly, and as he turned the car onto Tiergartenstrasse, Boris grinned back. They both knew there was very little her parents could do to prevent her from doing as she pleased.

  Exhibit A: her upcoming tour of the Soviet Union. Her parents were vehemently opposed to the trip, even though she had explained that it was not admiration for communism that compelled her but love for Boris. As much as she adored him, she could not ignore her nagging worries that their romance was doomed. She needed to learn more about him, his beliefs, and his country before she could possibly know whether they had a chance at a future together. And she needed to know. Every day, as her feelings for him grew stronger, so too did her concerns that the differences between their two worlds were irreconcilable, and she ought to get out now rather than set herself up for worse heartbreak later.

  She did not confess her worries to Boris, but she suspected he knew. “I could show you the Soviet Union,” he had protested when she first announced her trip. “You’ll get a much better sense of my country that way than on an official government tour, with everything scripted and curated to impress.”

  “If you’re there, you might influence me even without meaning to,” she had said, running a hand through his hair and kissing his cheek to soften the blow. “I have to reach my own conclusions.”

  He had nodded grudgingly, but they argued about it later, spoiling a lovely evening walk through the Tiergarten with baseless accusations and biting retorts. They were both such passionate people that their relationship inevitably shifted dramatically through peaks of great joy, valleys of anger when they declared it was over between them, and the muted middle ground of remorse and reconciliation. Mildred, who disapproved of Boris only slightly less than Martha’s parents did, called it the “Russian roller coaster” and encouraged Martha to disembark. Martha laughed off her friend’s warnings even as she secretly thought she probably ought to heed them. Could she really marry Boris and make a life with him in the Soviet Union, a country so unlike America? Her trip would help her decide one way or the other.

  But that journey was a week away, and she refused to let any worries about the future of their relationship spoil their outing. The night’s coolness had burned off with the dawn, and the bright sunshine and cloudless skies promised a hot, sultry day, perfect for swimming and sunbathing.

  They drove about twenty kilometers west to Gross Glienicker See, a beautiful serene lake with secluded coves and sandy beaches surrounded by lush forest. In a private spot on the northern shore, they spread their blanket in the sunshine, stripped down to the swimsuits they had worn beneath their clothes, and plunged into the cool, pristine lake, refreshed and exhilarated by the sensuous touch of the water upon their skin, their mutual desire, and the anticipation of pleasure. By unspoken agreement they said nothing of Nazis or politics but luxuriated in idleness, speaking little and then only of the fine weather and the beautiful scenery. They glided together and apart, closing their eyes and lifting their faces to the sky, sighing as the concerns of Berlin and of the future were washed away.

  When they tired of swimming they lay in each other’s arms on the blanket, baking in the sun, plunging into the lake again when the heat became unbearable. When they were fatigued, they dozed; when they were hungry, they moved their blanket into the shade, unpacked the picnic hamper, and dined on sandwiches, beer, and vodka. Martha had not felt so content since she had arrived in Berlin, with the crystal lake shimmering in the sunlight, the blue sky above endless and serene, and Boris, lacing his fingers through hers, smiling as he smoothed her windblown curls from her face, pressing his lips to hers and lingering there, his mouth warm and hungry and tasting faintly of beer and mustard.

  The temperature continued to rise throughout that glorious, lazy, sunbaked day, and they agreed that it was probably unendurable in the city and they were clever to have escaped it. But they were obliged to return, so at five o’clock they reluctantly dressed, shook the sand from the blanket, packed up the
Ford, and headed back to Berlin.

  As they left the lake behind, Martha sighed contentedly, relaxed into her seat, and pulled up her skirt to the bottom of her bathing suit to soak in the last sunbeams and enjoy the cooling breezes stirred up by the car’s swift passage. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Boris glancing frequently at her sun-kissed thighs. “Keep your eyes on the road or we’ll end up in a ditch,” she teased.

  “How can I?” he retorted, his voice a low, thrilling growl. “You’re the most delicious distraction.”

  She smiled and tilted her head back, enjoying his attention.

  The car sped from cool shade into patches of brilliant sunshine where the scent of pine and earth came to her sharp and pungent. They passed between bicyclists traveling in both directions, men and women alike, some carrying small children in little wagons on the side or in baskets on the front. Occasionally a motorcycle sped noisily past them, the riders’ faces obscured by leather helmets and thick goggles. Others traveled on foot, women in pairs, strolling leisurely with a basket dangling from an elbow or with armfuls of flowers, sturdy men striding along with knapsacks. Martha’s heart warmed to the German country folk, so simple, friendly, and earnest as they enjoyed the beauty of their land.

  It was nearly six o’clock when they reached Berlin, and, knowing that she might be recognized, Martha pulled down her skirts and sat up straight as befit an ambassador’s daughter. Boris said something in Russian, a mournful complaint understandable in any language. Mildred laughed, so charmed by his admiration that a few minutes passed before she realized that the streets were curiously empty for a balmy Saturday evening—no couples strolling arm in arm, no stout gentlemen walking their dogs, no friendly groups meeting up outside restaurants or theaters. Mildred spotted a few sparse clusters of men on street corners, but they were strangely static, turned inward, sometimes glancing warily over their shoulders at the police, who seemed to be out in greater numbers than usual.

  Beside her, Boris shifted in his seat and inhaled deeply, and she knew he sensed the unsettling, electric tension in the air too.