Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Air raid,” Arvid barked, bounding from his chair, snatching up his attaché case with one hand and the flashlight from the mantel with the other. Mildred barely had time to put on her shoes before Arvid took her arm and swiftly guided her into the hallway, pushing her toward the stairwell as he paused to lock the door. Racing downstairs, fighting back terror when slower residents blocked her way, she glanced over her shoulder and felt her heart constrict when she glimpsed Arvid a flight above. He gestured for her to proceed, so she did, crowding into the basement with other couples, families with small children, a few elderly men and women. The block warden had organized the shelter months before, and all residents had been required to participate in drills, but this was different, the semidarkness disorienting, the shriek of the sirens filling her ears and drowning out every sense but terror.

  She found a seat on a bench near the wall but could not breathe easily until Arvid joined her there. With his arm around her shoulders, she shivered in the cool dark, her gaze fixed on the half window above, a faint outline on the opposite wall, sandbags barely visible through the glass. The air was dank and thick with the smell of fear and sweat, perfume and soiled diapers, stale cigarettes. A baby fretted. The minutes stretched out endlessly, and eventually speculation broke out whether it was the Poles, the Brits, or the French coming to bomb them, or if it was all just an unannounced drill, or why they bothered to cower in a basement anyway since the building would never withstand a direct hit. A few people hissed at that remark, and one man ordered the speaker to shut up before he frightened the children.

  Mildred strained her ears, listening for explosions in the distance, but she heard only sirens and, infrequent and almost inaudible, a man issuing commands over a loudspeaker. Eventually the all-clear sounded, and Mildred and Arvid made their way back upstairs. “A false alarm, I suppose,” she said with false bravado as he unlocked the door to their apartment.

  “Or a propaganda exercise,” he replied. “That would be my guess.”

  The radio reported nothing, and in the morning, the papers praised the exemplary responses of the block wardens and citizens without disclosing the reason for the alarm. Rumors flew through the city all day, a few concurring with Arvid that it had been orchestrated for propaganda purposes, some that a careless officer had set off the sirens by mistake, and others who claimed that a single plane straying too close to the capital had provoked the air raid warning.

  Throughout that beautiful, sunny autumn day, enthusiastic reports of artillery bombardments, military advances, and Polish treachery filled the airwaves, punctuated by occasional references to ongoing negotiations between British ambassador Sir Nevile Henderson and his counterparts in the German Foreign Ministry. From an illicit BBC broadcast, Mildred learned that President Roosevelt had urged the leaders of every nation involved in the conflict to affirm that its armed forces would not bomb civilian populations from the air. Mildred thought it was a noble appeal, and she fervently hoped it would succeed, but she could not imagine Hitler agreeing to anything that might bind his hands.

  The air raid sirens remained silent that night, but in the morning she and Arvid learned that Henderson had delivered an ultimatum to the Reich Chancellery. If Germany did not immediately cease all aggressive action against Poland and withdraw its troops by eleven o’clock, a state of war would exist between Great Britain and Germany.

  Shortly after the deadline, the British ambassador returned to the Wilhelmstrasse and received Hitler’s reply in the form of a memo. Germany rejected the ultimatum. Germany and Great Britain were at war.

  Mildred learned the dreadful news as she was on her way to deliver an edited manuscript to Rütten & Loening, halting on the sidewalk amid other pedestrians as Hitler’s speech was broadcast over loudspeakers throughout the city. Rousing herself from her shock, she hurried on her way, wishing she could leave the strident voice behind, but as soon as it began to fade she would approach another Platz with more loudspeakers, and so the madman dogged her steps all the way to the publisher’s office.

  The next day, the British and French embassies closed and their diplomats and families left Berlin, scenes to Mildred painfully reminiscent of the partial closure of the American embassy. It seemed that every friendly nation, every potential ally of the resistance, was leaving Germany as swiftly as their chartered trains could carry them away.

  In the days that followed, if Mildred did not turn on the radio and hear the exultant reports of the Luftwaffe raining down destruction upon Poland as the Wehrmacht marched inexorably eastward, she could almost believe that the nation was not at war. Early in the morning of September 9, an air raid siren again broke the predawn silence, but the all-clear sounded soon enough and it was evident Berlin had never been in danger. The British had sent twenty-five planes to bomb Wilhelmshaven and had dropped leaflets over the Rhineland, but if the reports were true, not a single shot had been fired along the western front. Mildred and Arvid heard halfhearted jokes around the city that they were engaged in a “phony war,” and indeed, except for the rationing and the blackouts, life went on almost as it ever had. Restaurants and shops were open, theaters and concert halls and cinemas enjoyed full houses. Rumors that a peace accord with France and Great Britain was imminent alternated with reports that Russia was preparing to invade Poland from the east. From what Arvid observed in the Economics Ministry, he found the latter far more plausible than the former.

  He was right. On September 17, the Soviet army invaded eastern Poland. Ten days later, after relentless artillery bombardments, Warsaw surrendered to Germany.

  In the first week of October, on the same day that Mildred successfully defended her dissertation and earned her doctorate at long last, Adolf Hitler appeared before the Reichstag to announce a peace proposal for Great Britain and France. Essentially he offered the two countries peace in the West if they did not interfere with Germany’s plans to acquire Lebensraum in Eastern Europe. Bitter experience must have taught their leaders to put no trust in Hitler’s promises, for this time they did not concede.

  If only they had given this strong, united response years ago, Mildred thought. Now it seemed that another world war was inevitable, and her dread of what might befall them was infused with a deep sense of failure. For years the resistance had worked to oust Hitler in order to avoid war, to end suffering. Now Hitler was more powerful than ever, and although the Allies had met the terms of their treaty with Poland by declaring war on Germany, they seemed reluctant to engage in battle.

  “You should have stayed in the United States,” Arvid told Mildred one evening as they fixed the blackout curtains in place. “I wish I would have insisted.”

  “It would have broken my heart to disobey you,” said Mildred lightly. “I wouldn’t have stayed without you, and I couldn’t have stayed without a way to support myself.”

  “Your sisters and brother offered you a place to stay.”

  “I refuse to become a burden to them. They have enough mouths to feed.”

  But she did often wish that she and Arvid were safe in America. So many other friends had fled. With renewed confidence thanks to her doctorate, and with little to lose, Mildred sent out another round of inquiries and applied for Rockefeller and Guggenheim fellowships. She arranged for all replies to be sent to Donald Heath at the American embassy, for it would jeopardize Arvid’s position in the Economics Ministry if it became known that his wife was trying to leave the country.

  In the meantime, preparations for war went on. On the western front, British and French forces built fortifications on one side of the Rhine in plain view of German defenses on the other, but no shots were fired. Children were swiftly packed off to relatives in the countryside for their safety, despite official assurances that it was impossible for enemy planes to get past German defenses and bomb Berlin. Death notices began appearing in the papers, poignant tributes by bereft parents mourning sons killed in battle in Poland.

  One afternoon in mid-October, Arvid came
home unexpectedly early from work and barely paused to greet her in his haste to pack a bag. He was going to Jena, he called over his shoulder on his way to their bedroom. His mother had been arrested.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Mildred, quickly following.

  As they threw clothing and money and ration cards into their suitcases, Arvid explained that an hour ago, his sister Inge had called him at his office to give him the terrible news. She was waiting outside with her husband’s car. Falk was already en route from Weimar.

  Inge, pale and trembling, slid over to let Arvid take the wheel as he and Mildred loaded their suitcases in the trunk and took their seats. As they sped southwest from Berlin, she explained what had happened. That morning, Mutti Clara had been out for her daily walk when she passed a park where several children were playing. When she overheard them singing songs from the Hitler Youth and Jungmädelbund, she asked if they knew that there were better songs to sing—German Volkslieder, for example. As the children eagerly gathered around so she could teach them a traditional tune about a little bluebird, an outraged passerby stormed off to report her to the Gestapo.

  “What has this world come to that an elderly woman can be thrown into prison for teaching children an innocent song?” said Inge, fighting back tears.

  When they reached the Gestapo’s main office in Thuringia, they found Falk speaking with a disgruntled, impatient officer, arguing and cajoling by turns for his mother’s release. With tangible relief, he let his older brother take over. Arvid quickly assessed the facts of the case, the charges against his mother, and the evidence, which seemed to consist solely of the informant’s testimony and Mutti Clara’s “confession” that she had indeed taught the children the song.

  While Arvid reasoned with the official, Inge and Mildred were allowed into the cellblock to see Mutti Clara. To their relief, they found her in good health and spirits, bemused by all the fuss and annoyed at the inconvenience. “I wasn’t teaching them ‘La Marseillaise,’ for heaven’s sake,” she said, wringing her hands in agitation.

  Mildred suspected it was not the Volkslied but the implication that Nazi songs were inferior that had prompted her mother-in-law’s arrest, and when she and Inge rejoined Arvid and Falk, the brothers were addressing that very point with the Gestapo officer assigned to the case. “By discouraging the children to renounce their Hitlerjugend and Jungmädelbund songs, Frau Harnack was undermining the authority of their leaders, and by extension, that of the Reich,” the officer said, his faint flush belying his firm tone. Was he angry, or was he embarrassed by the absurdity of prosecuting an elderly woman for such a trivial misdeed?

  “She wasn’t asking them to renounce anything, but rather to add Volkslieder to their repertoire,” said Arvid. “Surely you agree with our Führer that children should learn the songs of the Volk?”

  “Certainly, but a woman of her advanced years should know better than to question the children’s instruction.”

  “A woman of her advanced years is easily confused,” said Arvid. “You know how the older generation is affected by talk of war, having such vivid memories of the last one. She has been deeply upset by the bombings in Poland, and it has affected her mind.”

  The officer appeared to soften at this. Out of respect for Arvid’s high rank in the Economics Ministry, he agreed to take the matter up with his superior, but for the present, Frau Harnack must remain in prison. When Inge begged him to permit her mother her paints, easel, and brushes, the officer hesitated, but eventually agreed.

  The next day, they returned to the prison to visit Mutti Clara and plead her case to any official who would see them. After four days, Mildred, Falk, and Inge remained in Thuringia, but Arvid was obliged to return to the ministry. He continued to work from his office for his mother’s release, calling in favors, finding advocates in the Nazi hierarchy for whom the Harnack name still carried weight. Finally, after a harrowing fortnight, Mutti Clara was released on the condition that she leave Jena. She reluctantly consented, and even more reluctantly, her children decided to admit her to a sanatorium for the aged in the countryside for her own safety.

  Soon after Mutti Clara was settled in her new home—temporarily, they all hoped—Mildred received word that her applications for the Rockefeller and Guggenheim fellowships had been rejected.

  “I’m sorry, Liebling,” said Arvid, embracing her. “They’re fools not to recognize your genius.”

  Despite her crushing disappointment, Mildred had to laugh. “How could I ever leave such a sweet and loyal husband?” she asked, kissing him.

  Arvid managed a halfhearted smile, but as the days passed, she sometimes caught him watching her, guilt and torment in his eyes. “I cannot bear that you’re subjecting yourself to an ominous future for my sake,” he told her once, and the next Saturday, as they walked through the Tiergarten with the Heath family, he again asked Donald to persuade Mildred to return to the United States.

  “If you can’t convince her, I don’t know why you think I could,” Donald said, while Louise reached out and squeezed Mildred’s hand in sympathy.

  A few days later, when Arvid returned home from work, he took a thick envelope from his attaché case and gave it to Mildred. “Keep this with you at all times,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze.

  “What is it?”

  “I booked you passage from Hamburg to New York with United States Lines.”

  “Arvid, no,” she protested, tossing the envelope on the table and planting her hands on her hips.

  “Mildred, listen. It’s good on any of their ships, at any time. I’m not sending you away tomorrow, but should it ever become necessary, I want you to be able to leave Germany at a moment’s notice.”

  “Where’s your ticket?” she asked, already sure he had not purchased one for himself. When he shook his head sadly, she studied him for a long moment in silence before agreeing to keep the envelope in her purse.

  She could not imagine using the ticket. How could she ever leave her beloved Arvid behind to an uncertain fate? If she fled to the United States, the Gestapo would immediately suspect him of disloyalty to the Reich and place him under close scrutiny, jeopardizing his job in the ministry, his work with the resistance, his very life. She could not abandon him to that. They would go together or not at all.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  November 1939–March 1940

  Sara

  Sara and Natan received one letter from their parents at the apartment in Friedenau letting them know they had arrived safely and assuring them of their love, understanding, and gratitude. Without mentioning their destination by name, they urged Sara and Natan to join them there soon.

  In reply, Natan wrote a letter addressed to Wilhelm, purportedly from Adam Kuckhoff, reminding him of their meeting on September 5—Sara’s birthday—and the theatrical production they had discussed. “Kuckhoff” hoped he was still interested in producing a new biographical play about Ludwig van Beethoven, and if so, he should respond by return mail at his earliest convenience.

  Adam took wry pleasure in his role in the subterfuge, and it was not long until Greta presented Sara with another letter from her parents, albeit in Wilhelm’s handwriting and bearing his signature. He was eager to produce the play, he had written, and the enclosed cheque should be considered his first investment. Perhaps Kuckhoff would consider perfecting the play in Geneva before introducing it to Berlin’s more discriminating audiences.

  Their improvised code evolved as they sent letters back and forth. Natan was called the playwright, Sara the stage manager. Their parents were the Swiss investors, Amalie their secretary, her children their staff. It was a necessary artifice, frustrating in its obliqueness. Although sometimes Sara and Natan could not puzzle out what their parents meant by a certain theatrical metaphor, they were grateful to have any communication at all. Natan once joked that the more they wrote about their nonexistent Beethoven biography, the more he liked the idea. “Kuckhoff and I should go in on it together,�
� he said, “especially if Mutti and Papa are willing to fund it.”

  The money their parents sent had become essential. Sara had no paying work, and Natan’s freelance, pseudonymous journalism assignments had diminished as his contacts in the German press became too apprehensive to employ an incognito Jew. Sara had sold off pieces of the family silver as her mother had instructed, but her frequent visits to pawnshops drew unwanted attention. Inevitably, a proprietor would realize that she was Jewish, size up her desperation, and offer her a small fraction of what an Aryan would have expected to receive for the same items. She hated to let precious family heirlooms go for a few marks and an earful of insults. As long as the Swiss investors continued to fund Kuckhoff’s play, she would not have to.

  “Adam and I are grateful for your help,” Sara told Greta one afternoon when she came by to babysit little Ule, a slight but strong boy of almost two years. Greta had added translation to her freelance editing jobs, and between that, her resistance work, and tending Ule, she toiled almost every waking hour. “We know what risks you’re taking for our sake, not only with our correspondence but simply by associating with us.”

  Greta gazed heavenward and shook her head. “I’m not going to give up my Jewish friends just because Hitler says I should.”

  “Perhaps you should, for your own safety. Most of my Aryan friends have cut off contact with me.”

  “That’s their loss.” Greta kissed Ule’s cheek and fixed Sara with a look of fond resolve. “Do you know how hard it is to find a reliable babysitter these days? I’m not giving up Ule’s favorite without a fight.”

  Smiling, Sara resolved to put her faithless friends out of mind. Greta at least would never abandon her. Sara had witnessed her generosity to other Jews too often to believe her capable of it. She gave free English lessons to Jewish families awaiting visas to Great Britain and the United States. Before the war, she had traveled to London to help sort out thorny Jewish immigration issues and to meet with colleagues in British trade unions, marshaling their support and soliciting donations for Jewish relief. She and Adam—and the Harnacks too—saved portions of their rations to share with Jewish neighbors whose allotments were never enough to assuage their hunger. Greta’s instinctive acts of kindness, her refusal to learn hatred and exclusion, gave Sara hope.