For his part, Dieter assured Sara that he understood the reason for her distance and distraction, but she was guiltily certain that he did not know all that she felt and feared. “Tell me how to help Natan and I’ll do it,” he said, but she had no idea what more he could do aside from providing the imported luxuries they used to bribe the guards. His boss often distributed overstocked items or slightly damaged packages unsuitable for store shelves among his employees, and Dieter had always been generous with his share.
Then, in late February, Sara’s parents received a letter from the SS announcing that Natan would be released early on account of good behavior. Since he never would have confessed which of his colleagues at the Berliner Tageblatt had helped him defy the Editors Law, Sara knew that at last Mildred’s American friends had prevailed.
On the appointed day, she feared it was all a cruel Nazi trick, or a mistake in the paperwork, and they would arrive at the prison camp only to discover that it was just another visit, and afterward Natan would be torn from their arms and led back to his cell. When the guards at the front gate stalled before admitting them despite the usual parcel and bribe, she mentally composed arguments, threats, pleas. Only when they had Natan in their car wrapped in warm blankets and they were speeding away from Oranienburg could she breathe deeply, lightheaded, clutching his hand, murmuring assurances that all would be well. He nodded and managed a grin, unable to speak for the deep, wet coughs racking his thin frame.
They went directly to their longtime physician, a Jew who was no longer permitted to practice medicine, but nonetheless saw Jewish patients in secret at his home. After examining Natan thoroughly, the physician reported that he was severely malnourished and suffering from pneumonia. His left arm had been broken three months earlier and had been set badly, but it would do more harm than good to break it again and reset it. A program of strengthening exercises would help him regain full use of the arm in time. He had also contracted skin infections and lice. The doctor provided a cream for the first affliction and recommended Natan shave his head for the second.
Sara and her parents took Natan home—not to his flat, which Sara and Amalie had cleared out months before, but to his childhood bedroom. Sara and her mother prepared him a simple, nourishing meal of potato soup and bread while he bathed and shaved, at first refusing his father’s help, and then admitting he required it. Afterward his cough was worse, but the medicine had eased his fever, and he looked so much better clean, freshly shaven, and even bald that tears came to Sara’s eyes. After he ate—carefully, sparingly, following the doctor’s warning—he dragged himself upstairs and collapsed into bed. He slept for eighteen hours.
When he woke, he was ravenous. Clad in warm flannel pajamas and a dressing gown, he came downstairs to the kitchen, where the cook prepared him a hot breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, and toast. He asked to read the Berliner Tageblatt while he ate. Sara brought it to him, poured herself a cup of coffee, and seated herself at the table, ready to fetch him anything else he wanted, or to talk if he felt up to it.
Instead he studied the paper with a burning intensity, nodding approval at one article, muttering disparagingly at another. “This is such ingratiating propaganda that Goebbels himself might have written it,” he grumbled once, smacking an article with the back of his fingers. His brow furrowed at the many unfamiliar bylines, and his concern deepened as he realized how many names of former colleagues were absent. Eventually he pushed the paper aside, rested his arms on the table, and regarded Sara as if he expected an argument. “I have to find work.”
“You have to regain your strength.”
“After that. I have to find work. I have to write.”
“Natan, no,” she protested, glancing over her shoulder for their parents. “You can’t. The Gestapo will be watching you. The moment you break the law again, they’ll throw you into a worse camp than Oranienburg. You won’t survive.”
“It’s not against the law for a Jew to write for Jewish newspapers. I’ll convince a Jewish newspaper to hire me, or I’ll start my own.”
“I don’t understand why you have to go looking for trouble.”
“The trouble’s already here. I’m just going to write about it.”
She decided not to tell their parents, in the hope that Natan would change his mind. Still, although she worried, she could not help admiring him for his determination, his undaunted courage. She was just a literature student, her only form of protest her participation in Mildred’s study group. Natan’s work, when he resumed it, would actually make a difference.
A few days after Natan came home, Dieter phoned to ask if he could see her, if a visit would not impose upon the family. She invited him to come for tea that afternoon, guiltily mindful of the many dates she had canceled as the family prepared for Natan’s release. In two days Dieter would be leaving for Australia on business and would not return for four months. She had to see him before he left, and this might be their only chance.
“Maybe you should go with Dieter to Australia,” said Natan, lingering in the doorway as she tidied the living room.
“He’s going on a business trip, not a vacation. Anyway, we’re not married yet. Mother and Father would never allow it.”
“I think they might. Maybe they should go too, and you all should . . . stay. Indefinitely.”
“You mean emigrate.” Shaking her head, Sara plumped a pillow vigorously and set it back down on the sofa. “How could we leave you and Amalie behind?”
“You could return when the Nazis are out of power.”
“And that would be when?”
“Or we could join you in Australia.” Natan heaved a sigh and turned away. “Just think about it.”
There was no point in thinking about it; Dieter was leaving in two days and she could never make arrangements to accompany him on such short notice. Nor would she leave the university so close to earning her degree. Natan was just being an overprotective elder brother, she told herself as the doorbell rang and she hurried off to welcome Dieter.
“Sara, darling, it’s so good to see you,” he said when she opened the door. He was bundled up in a heavy wool coat and a hat, his cheeks red from the cold, and he carried a large box she assumed held imported delicacies. “How is Natan?”
“Getting stronger every day.” She opened the door wider and beckoned him inside.
Dieter shifted the box as he drew closer, and when he did, a glint of metal on his lapel caught her attention. “What are you wearing?” she asked, sickened, although she knew exactly what it was.
Dieter set down the box and scrambled to remove the swastika from his lapel. “It’s just a pin. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“Sara—” He shoved the pin into his pocket. “I’m not a Nazi. You know that.”
“Then why would you wear—” She gestured to his pocket, anger surging. “That thing, that horrible symbol? Do you usually wear it whenever I’m not around to see?”
“I didn’t want to offend you.” He reached for her hand, but she recoiled. “I wear it for business. My boss expects it. Our customers appreciate it. It means nothing. You know how it is. I have to go along to get along.”
“That’s no excuse,” she said, incredulous. “How could you? These are the people who held my brother in a concentration camp. You know what they think of Jews, of my family, of me. You know what they are. And yet you wear their symbol because it’s good for business?”
“Sara, please, let’s talk.” He took a few steps toward her, arm outstretched, but he halted when she backed away. “I’m leaving in a couple of days. Let’s not part like this. We’re going to be married.”
She tried to speak, but words failed her. She shook her head, blinked tears from her eyes, and closed the door on him, ignoring the pleas and apologies he sent after her, first contritely and then with rising frustration, until he fell silent.
Twenty minutes later, when she cautiously drew back a curtain and glanced outside,
the box was on the doorstep, but Dieter was gone. Her heart ached with regret, but somehow she felt more relief than sorrow.
Chapter Thirty
April–May 1935
Greta
In April, Mildred threw a small party for Arvid when he passed his last qualifying exam for the civil service. Soon thereafter, with the help of one of Greta’s childhood friends, he was offered an excellent job within the Ministry of Economics.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he told Greta soon after he accepted the position, surprising her at her boathouse flat with a small basket packed with decadent treats. “I hope this expresses my gratitude more eloquently.”
“This wasn’t necessary,” Greta protested, marveling as she peered inside and discovered a bottle of Russian vodka, a tin of Russian caviar, South American coffee, and her favorite Swiss chocolates. “You shouldn’t have squandered your first paycheck on me—unless all this came from your friends at the Soviet embassy?”
“Neither,” Arvid admitted. “Mildred received this from one of her students to thank her for helping arrange her brother’s release from a prison camp.”
“You mean Sara Weitz.”
“Yes. Mildred demurred, but Sara insisted. I hope that doesn’t make my gift seem any less sincere.”
“Not at all.” With an appreciative sigh, Greta closed the box. “This is too good to refuse, but I don’t need a gift for helping a friend. It’s reward enough to know that the great Arvid Harnack, prince of academic royalty, needed my help to get a job.”
They shared a smile. Over the years their old rivalry had mellowed into friendly banter. With more menacing enemies threatening them both, it made no sense not to be allies.
Then Arvid’s smile faded. “Before I’m allowed to start work, I have to attend a Nazi boot camp. It’s meant to toughen me up physically and bludgeon my political beliefs into proper alignment.”
“That’s dreadful. How long must you be away?”
“A week. One week too many.”
Greta wondered how Arvid would be able to conceal his true feelings from officers trained to detect and snuff out dissent. “By Wednesday you’ll be cursing me for getting you the job,” she said with false levity. “You’re going to demand this gift back.”
“The vodka, anyway,” he deadpanned, but his expression was bleak.
Greta next saw Mildred a few days after Arvid returned home from his indoctrination. They had met for a walk in the Tiergarten, one of the few places they could talk without fear of listening devices picking up their conversation. When Greta asked if the camp had been as terrible as Arvid had expected, Mildred shook her head. “Worse, much worse,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “He refuses to tell me the details because he says he wants to spare me the grim images that he can never forget.”
Greta shuddered. “Poor Arvid.”
“He came home uninjured and undaunted, so whatever he went through, it wasn’t as horrible as what Natan Weitz suffered. The experience only strengthened Arvid’s antipathy for the Nazis. He’s stronger than they are, with their propaganda and calisthenics and false science. They tried to make him one of their own and they failed.”
“Some people simply can’t conform upon command,” said Greta. “I’m thankful I’m one of them.”
“So am I,” said Mildred fervently. “Anyway, Arvid is home now, nursing sore muscles and preparing to start work at the Ministry of Economics—while we work at the American embassy.”
Greta nodded. Ambassador and Mrs. Dodd were hosting a tea on May 8 in honor of the American novelist Thomas Wolfe, who had come to Berlin to promote Rowohlt’s German translation of his renowned novel Look Homeward, Angel. The Dodds had already invited many American dignitaries and members of the press corps, but Martha had asked Mildred to select the German guests, “intellectuals who are both brilliant enough to impress Thomas Wolfe and brave enough to attend,” as she put it. In recent months, as Mr. Dodd’s antipathy for the Nazi regime had become more apparent, German diplomats had begun avoiding the American embassy, returning marked “out of town” invitations to various events. Loath to embarrass their honored guest with a flop of a party, Martha had begged Mildred to create a guest list on the ambassador’s behalf. Mildred was perfect for the job, Martha insisted. Not only did she and Arvid know the German literati exceptionally well, but she had also published several scholarly articles and had given numerous lectures about Wolfe’s work.
After conferring with Arvid, Mildred had decided to invite only known and suspected opponents of the regime. At the tea, she, Greta, and Adam would circulate among the journalists, authors, and editors, carefully evaluating their political beliefs and establishing contact with those who seemed suitable candidates for a literary resistance. Forging ties to other groups would help them evaluate the strength and extent of the anti-Nazi movement, and eventually to share information and collaborate on resistance actions.
But first, the guest list.
Linking arms as they strolled, pretending to be engrossed in the rosy buds and pale green flush of spring that had recently swept over the park, Greta and Mildred quietly suggested names, debated them, rejected some, added a select few to their mental list. Once, in a secluded grove of linden, Mildred suggested they sit for a while, but the only bench in sight was painted yellow to indicate that it was reserved for Jews. Not surprisingly, no one sat upon it.
“Shameful,” Greta muttered, turning away as anger boiled up inside her. What would the Nazis ruin next? Whenever Greta thought they had exhausted all the possible ways to humiliate German Jews, they surprised her with something new, something more cruel.
Greta and Mildred walked on until they were satisfied with their guest list, parting with a mix of hope and apprehension for how their fates might intertwine in the days to come.
On the afternoon of the tea, Adam met Greta at her flat and they went off to Tiergartenstrasse 27a together. “Arvid won’t be attending,” Greta told him as they approached the luxurious residence, where several cars were lined up in the driveway. Each driver paused at the gate, where a guard examined their invitation before allowing them to pass beneath the elaborate ironwork arch. “He thought it would be unwise to mingle publicly with Americans so soon after accepting his new post.”
“He’s married to an American. That ought to be excuse enough,” said Adam. “He shouldn’t have taken the job if it meant shunning his friends.”
“Except that he wants to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table,” said Greta. “He doesn’t have the luxury of turning down work. And now he’ll have access to invaluable financial and economic information—where the Nazis are keeping their money, how they’re spending it, what their intentions may be. Would you really have him walk away from that?”
Grudgingly, Adam admitted that he would not.
At the front entrance, Greta and Adam were shown inside by Fritz, the stocky blond butler. Although she had never heard him utter a single “Heil Hitler,” Fritz struck Greta as a burgeoning fascist, sly and suspicious, increasingly grim-faced as relations soured between the Reich and the homeland of the people he served. She could not give a reason for her instinctive distrust, but she would not discount it either.
Adam offered Greta his arm and escorted her up the grand staircase to the main hall, where Martha and her mother met them. Martha, bright-eyed and smiling, was smartly dressed in a pale mauve suit with white satin trim and a flared skirt. Beside her, white-haired Mrs. Dodd seemed small, wan, and very tired, but she was unfailingly gracious as she greeted each new arrival.
“I’m counting on you to help loosen up some of the tension around here,” Martha confided to Greta. “I asked Mildred to invite interesting and intriguing people, but I haven’t seen a grimmer bunch of Germans gathered in one place since the Night of the Long Knives.”
Greta glanced around the room. “I’m sure everyone’s just anxious for Thomas Wolfe to arrive.”
“I hope you’re right. I wanted a
musing conversation, an exchange of stimulating views, not miserable scowls better suited for a funeral.”
As Martha turned to welcome another guest, Adam and Greta moved on. “Something tells me Martha doesn’t know how interesting and intriguing these particular guests are,” he said in a wry undertone as they joined the crowd.
“That’s because Mildred and I didn’t explain our criteria for choosing them,” said Greta. “Mildred wanted to, but Arvid and I thought she would be a more convincing hostess if she had nothing to hide.”
She exchanged a smile across the ballroom with Bella Fromm, formerly the diplomatic reporter for the Vossische Zeitung, now with the Continental Post. Glancing to her right, Greta nodded discreetly to Max Tau, the renowned German-Norwegian editor and author. As a Jew, he had taken to prefacing his job titles with “erstwhile” whenever he was obliged to mention them in mixed company. She hoped he continued to work in secret.
Greta and Adam separated to mingle through the crowd, the better to gather more impressions to compare later. Adam immediately went to his friend John Sieg, the former editor of the Rote Fahne, a Communist newspaper officially forbidden by the Nazis but still published clandestinely by the Communist underground. In 1933, Sieg had been caught up in a wave of Nazi arrests and had spent four months in an SA prison, but that had not deterred him. With his connections to the underground, he would be a valuable ally.
Wandering the rooms, Greta soon found Mildred, radiant in her blue crepe de Chine dress, her golden hair woven into a bun. They conferred quietly before parting to work the crowd. Everything was in place. All around them, Germans and Americans chatted in lively groups or in somber pairs while liveried footmen circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres and cocktails for those who craved something stronger than tea.
An hour passed as Greta wandered through the ballroom, the dining room, the Wintergarten, and the terrace, slipping easily into some conversations, eavesdropping on others as she accepted a cup of tea or nibbled on a canapé. Some guests revealed themselves less averse to the Reich than Greta and Mildred had believed. Others, though more circumspect, were unquestionably opposed, although whether they would be brave enough to join the burgeoning resistance was more difficult to ascertain. A few were so guarded and noncommittal that Greta could only guess where they truly stood. She imagined Arvid nodding approval and declaring that they should all be so careful and stoic, even among those they believed to be sympathetic to their cause. Studying them, marveling at how little they revealed of themselves, she wondered if they were more cautious because they already belonged to resistance circles and had more to lose if they were discovered.
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