“What the hell,” he protested, laughing. “It’s the Olympics and our team won. Owens was wonderful. I’m proud, so I yelled.”
“Maybe not so loudly at the back of the Führer’s head next time,” Martha advised, but she smiled, not at all sorry that Jesse Owens had spoiled both Hitler’s fun and his theory of Aryan supremacy.
The German team won the third heat, much to Hitler’s jubilation, but in the finals the Americans triumphed yet again, with the Italian team taking the silver and the Germans the bronze. Thomas celebrated the victory, but less ostentatiously, so Martha did not have to worry that he might spark an international incident. This time the Führer remained in the Honor Loge as the medals were awarded, possibly out of loyalty to the third-place Germans. But if he ever shook the hand of Jesse Owens or the other men on the American relay team, Martha did not see it.
“He is such a child,” Martha said to Mildred and Thomas later as they left the stadium. “Throughout the Games, he hasn’t shown the slightest indication that he understands good sportsmanship, or that he has any appreciation of sport for its own sake.”
“His sportsmanship is the least of our worries,” said Mildred. “If he’s a child, with a child’s impulsiveness and irrationality, then he’s an extremely dangerous one, powerful and cruel, able to act on any hateful whim with the full force of the German military and millions of devoted fanatics.”
Sobered, Martha made no reply. Of course there was no question that to Hitler the Berlin Games had nothing to do with the Olympic ideals of international friendship, peace, solidarity, and fair play. They were an entirely Germanic affair, pure and simple, meant to demonstrate German superiority, might, and peaceful intentions to the world, regardless of the truth.
And in that, Martha feared, he had triumphed.
Chapter Thirty-six
August–December 1936
Greta
After the Olympics, the international tourists went home impressed by the unprecedented magnificence of the Games and much reassured that Hitler’s intentions were peaceful, that he would make Germany great again without any peril to its neighbors. But as the eyes of the world turned away from Berlin, Greta and her friends braced themselves for the Nazi persecution of the Jews to resume with a vengeance.
Almost immediately, the signs announcing “Juden unerwünscht” returned to the front windows of shops and businesses. Arrests for the slightest offenses, or merely the suspicion of offenses, redoubled. Storm troopers resumed their arbitrary attacks on Jews in the streets of Berlin. The Reich Ministry of Education banned Jewish teachers from the public schools. And two days after the Games concluded, Captain Wolfgang Fürstner, designer of the much-lauded Olympic Village, committed suicide after he was dismissed from the military because of his Jewish ancestry. The Nazis claimed he had died in a car accident and interred him with full military honors, but drawing upon his network of informants, Natan Weitz swiftly uncovered the truth. Unfortunately, even after his report was picked up by the international press, millions of ardent Nazis insisted upon believing the lie.
Greta fumed with anger and frustration that the world could be so easily duped by the spectacle of the Olympics. She understood the yearning to believe that Hitler was a man of peace, that Germany was ready to rejoin the fold of civilized nations after the horrors of the Great War, but wanting desperately for something to be true did not make it so. The flame of the Olympic torch, the fanfare of trumpets, the inspiring display of physical perfection, and the glitter of gold medals had distracted attention away from the battered Treaty of Versailles, ground under the boots of the German military as they marched into the Rhineland. What more evidence of Hitler’s expansionist intentions did world leaders require?
The resistance had to keep writing, keep speaking, keep bearing witness to what was really happening in Germany. They had no arms, no tanks, no storm troopers. Their only weapon was the truth, but Greta had to believe that in the end, the truth would always defeat a lie.
Earlier that year, she had moved from her sublet room in Pichelswerder into a modest flat on Scharnweberstrasse a few blocks north of the Volkspark Rehberge. Her new place was only six kilometers away from Adam’s home on Dortmunder Strasse, more anonymous than the boathouse and more convenient for Adam’s overnight visits.
“You know what would be even easier?” he asked wryly. “If you just moved in with me.”
She demurred, as he must have known she would. Even though he was no longer living with his estranged wife, Greta did not want to share a home with him while he was still married to someone else. She knew she invited mockery for holding this line when she had already crossed so many others, but she did not care. She loved Adam and wanted to be with him, but she would not relinquish her independence for someone who would not fully commit to her and her alone.
Greta’s new landlady, Ruth Levinsohn, was half-Jewish on her father’s side, a widow with two grown daughters, both of whom had recently emigrated to Poland to avoid Nazi persecution. Perhaps it was out of loneliness for them that she took a special interest in Greta, not prying into her affairs, but always ready with a cup of tea, a morsel of something sweet, and news from the neighborhood if they happened to cross paths in the lobby. She was intelligent and well-read, a former rare books librarian who had been forced into early retirement in the purge of Jewish professors from the University of Berlin.
Frau Levinsohn knew Greta earned a living from a patchwork of freelance writing and editing, and one evening after Greta returned from delivering a proofread manuscript to Rowohlt, she met her at the door. “I may have found a job for you,” she said, her dark eyes keen with expectation.
Intrigued, Greta followed her into her office, where Frau Levinsohn poured her a cup of coffee and told her about another tenant, an Irishman named James Murphy, a professional translator and author. “He did the English translation of Max Planck’s latest book for a prominent London publisher.”
Greta’s eyebrows rose at the Nobel laureate’s name. “Where Is Science Going?”
“Yes, that’s the one. And just last year, Dr. Murphy translated Edwin Schrödinger’s book Science and the Human Temperament.” Frau Levinsohn peered at Greta over the rims of her glasses. “Dr. Murphy is a dedicated scholar and his work is very highly regarded.”
“I would imagine so.”
“For the past few months, Dr. Murphy has been working on another project, perhaps his most important book yet. Unfortunately, he has fallen ill, and he needs an assistant to help him complete the manuscript. When I told him about your qualifications, he asked to meet you as soon as possible—if you’re interested.”
“I’m definitely interested,” said Greta. “What book is he translating?”
“Dr. Murphy wanted to explain that himself.” Frau Levinsohn glanced to Greta’s cup to make sure she had finished her coffee. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the lobby, I’ll bring him down to meet you.”
Greta agreed, and as her landlady hurried off, she settled into a chair in a quiet corner away from the front door, mulling over the possibilities. Was the project the collected works of Albert Einstein? Unlikely, since the Jewish genius had lived in America since 1933. A comprehensive study of quantum mechanics by Werner Heisenberg? Was he even still in Berlin? So many renowned scientists had fled the Reich that it was difficult to remember who remained. Whoever the author was, Greta knew she would have to read deeply in his field of study in order to make her translation as rich and accurate as possible.
Before long Frau Levinsohn returned with a gentleman in his middle fifties attired in a well-cut suit and tie, walking a trifle unsteadily, perhaps, but looking very little like an invalid. He had to be more than two meters tall and at least one hundred kilograms, and he carried himself with regal dignity that commanded respect. He had full cheeks, a deeply cleft chin, and a wispy fringe of fair hair clinging defiantly to the back of his head. Although his gaze was intelligent, his eyes were bloodshot and the skin around his nose was flushe
d from capillaries spreading like fine red roots toward his cheeks.
Greta rose to meet them, and after Frau Levinsohn made introductions, they sat down for a chat. “Frau Levinsohn recommends you very highly,” Dr. Murphy said in flawless German, with only a trace of a charming Irish lilt. “I understand that you’re a freelance writer and editor, and that you’ve studied in the United States and at the London School of Economics.”
“I was only in London for a few months, but otherwise that’s correct,” she replied in English. “Frau Levinsohn told me about some of your previous translations, and I confess I’m quite impressed.”
Pleased, he smiled and briefly described his translation process, how he tried to be true not only to the literal meaning of the author’s words but also to the intent and emotion behind each phrase. He did not explicitly state his political views—wisely so, as other residents and visitors occasionally passed through the lobby on their way to the elevator—but as he spoke, certain words and allusions convinced Greta that he was no Nazi sympathizer. Even before he finished describing her responsibilities and schedule, and the wages he could provide, she had decided that she would accept the job.
“If my terms are acceptable, I’d like you to begin tomorrow,” he said, “but before you decide, I feel obliged to tell you what the project is.”
Greta prepared herself to hear the title of a challenging work full of specialized technical language. “I’m very eager to know,” she said, smiling.
“The Ministry of Propaganda has hired me to produce an unabridged English version of Mein Kampf.”
Greta recoiled. “Why?”
He shrugged and ran a hand over his scalp. “Goebbels didn’t say, precisely. Perhaps they want to have an English edition ready to release when they feel the time is right.”
“When would that be, exactly?” Greta quickly composed herself. “What I meant was, why would you translate such a vile, wretched book?”
Frau Levinsohn cleared her throat and glanced significantly to the front door and along the length of the lobby.
“Hitler’s autobiography is a manifesto of hate,” Greta continued, lowering her voice. “He advocates genocide and Lebensraum. Why would you choose to introduce his racist ideology to millions of new readers?”
“There are already a few English versions in print, all of them severely expurgated. The best of a bad lot came out three years ago, only a third as long as the original, with the most offensive, most revealing passages omitted. A reader would have no idea what Hitler really thinks, what he intends for Germany, for Europe, for the Jews, for the world.”
“And you believe an unexpurgated edition would reveal him as the monster he truly is.”
“Exactly.”
Greta sat back in her chair, thoughts churning. Hitler’s autobiography had become an enormous bestseller since being published in two volumes in 1925 and 1926, earning him millions of Reichsmarks. After he became chancellor, he had compelled the government to buy millions of copies and distribute them as gifts to every newlywed couple in Germany. “Your translation would be an authorized edition,” she pointed out. “Hitler will earn royalties from it.”
Grimacing, Dr. Murphy acknowledged that this was so.
A trifle sharply, she said, “I for one am loath to do anything that would put a single mark into that man’s pocket.”
“Miss Lorke, please keep your voice down,” Frau Levinsohn murmured.
“No, no, she has a right to express herself,” said Dr. Murphy.
She regarded him in utter disbelief. “No, I really don’t, not here, not anymore. This isn’t Ireland. Surely you can see that if the Ministry of Propaganda is for something, good people should be against it.”
“Goebbels’s purpose may be nefarious, but mine isn’t.”
“And yet you’re still giving the Nazis what they want, which is aiding and abetting them, even if you don’t know their intentions.” To spread their repellent ideology in England and the United States was the glaringly obvious answer, but she would not be surprised if Hitler had something even worse in mind.
Dr. Murphy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze earnest and deadly serious. “The world beyond Germany’s borders will never grasp what this man stands for if they read a sanitized version of his manifesto.”
“I understand that. I just don’t know which is worse, to say nothing or to say too much.”
“Your ethical concerns prove that you’re the right person for this work. Don’t refuse until you’re absolutely certain you can’t do it. Take a few days and think it over.”
Greta pressed her lips together and nodded. They parted with a handshake, Dr. Murphy’s large hand warm and solid and reassuring around hers.
She slept restlessly that night, her mind churning over his proposal. She wished Adam were there to kiss her, stroke her head, and calm her frenzied thoughts until sleep came. She wished he would be there in the morning, to hold her as she unburdened herself, asking questions and offering insight until she sorted out her conflicted feelings and made a decision.
She was tired of spending so many troubled nights alone.
For the next two days, she slipped in and out of the apartment building furtively, reluctant to run into Dr. Murphy or Frau Levinsohn until she decided. She did not have a chance to discuss the job with Adam until the evening of the second night, when she met him, John Sieg, and John’s wife, Sophie, at the Siegs’ apartment in Neukölln to sort a new batch of pamphlets for distribution. It was a reprint of a joint statement by prominent German Communists, Social Democrats, and expatriate intellectuals living in Paris, a call to unity published earlier that summer in the international edition of the Rote Fahne. The banner headline sent a surge of energy through Greta whenever she saw it—“Be United, United Against Hitler! A People’s Front to Rescue Germany from the Catastrophe of War”—and she found herself turning her gaze to it whenever she found her confidence flagging. If these rival political factions joined together, as they should have done before the National Socialists seized complete control, their combined strength could yet be enough to bring down the Reich. In the shadow of fascism, the disputes that had once divided them seemed insignificant now.
John Sieg was a Communist and an American citizen, born in Detroit to German immigrants, educated alternately in Germany and America, depending upon the wishes of his relatives and the restrictions of the Great War. Sophie was Polish by birth, petite and pretty, with dark ringlets and the alluring gaze of a film star. They had left the United States when the Great Depression had closed the factories, driving John and millions of others out of work. He had not fared much better in Germany, and he now earned a living through sporadic day labor. Sophie had worked as a stenographer and law clerk in a posh office on Potsdamer Strasse until her employer, a Jewish lawyer, had been barred from the profession. The Siegs were poor, but very much in love and happily married. Greta often envied them and reproved herself for it.
On that humid night, as thunder rumbled faintly and the open windows let in the scent of distant rain, Adam, John, and Sophie listened intently as Greta described the interview, her conflicted feelings, her hopes for the good that could come of the project, and her apprehensions for all that could go awry.
“In your place I would do it,” said Adam, his expression telling her that he knew it was her decision alone. “It’s part of our mission to tell the world the truth about Hitler.”
“But does his autobiography qualify as the truth?”
“It’s his truth, what he is and what he intends.”
“The German people have read his so-called truth,” said Sophie. “They didn’t recoil in horror. They embraced it. They made him their Führer.”
“The Americans and the British would view Lebensraum entirely differently than German nationalists do,” said Adam. “They wouldn’t be inspired by this book, but forewarned.”
Greta nodded. “Ideally, that’s what Murphy’s translation would a
ccomplish, but—”
“You must do it, Greta,” John broke in. “Do you know of Ivan Maisky?”
Adam shrugged, brow furrowing; Greta and Sophie shook their heads.
“He’s the Russian ambassador to the United Kingdom. I’ve never met him, but we have mutual friends through the party. Maisky told one of my comrades about an exchange he had with David Lloyd George.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose. “The prime minister?”
“Former prime minister, but yes, the same fellow. According to my comrade, Maisky persistently warned Lloyd George that Hitler was a fascist with dangerous expansionist intentions. He urged him to read Hitler’s book and take all necessary precautions before it was too late. Eventually Lloyd George retorted, ‘I don’t know why you tell me all these things are in Mein Kampf. I’ve read it and they aren’t.’”
“Oh, my,” breathed Sophie.
“You must help these people prepare, Greta,” said John. “Get that book into English.”
Adam placed a hand on her shoulder. “Darling, if you’re involved—”
“I can make sure nothing essential is omitted this time.” Greta inhaled deeply, steeling herself. “I’ll do it. What other choice is there?”
The next morning, Greta went to her landlady’s office and told her she would accept the job. Visibly relieved, Frau Levinsohn promptly escorted her upstairs to the Murphys’ flat. After Greta and Dr. Murphy shook hands and made it official, he introduced her to his wife, Mary, and to his secretary, Daphne French, a young Englishwoman about Greta’s age. Greta felt as if she were joining another resistance cell, but a disconcertingly overt and jolly one, with the official sanction of the Ministry of Propaganda and promises of tea and biscuits when she reported for work the next morning.
In the weeks that followed, Greta came every day except Sundays to work on Dr. Murphy’s manuscript, sometimes editing his drafts, occasionally translating one chapter while he worked on another. Before long she came to know him, his wife, and Daphne quite well. They were all strongly antifascist, fond of German music and literature, and nostalgic for the Germany that once was. Daphne was an excellent secretary, but although she could type flawless copies of German documents as perfectly as if it were her first language, she spoke it haltingly. Mrs. Murphy was clever, tolerant, and encouraging, and she had a dry sense of humor that Greta found delightful, especially when Nazi officials were the target of her satirical barbs.
Resistance Women Page 32
