At Easter Wedemeyer’s middle daughter, Maria, came home on vacation from her boarding school, the Magdalenen-Stift in Thuringia. “Our school is for girls of the Protestant nobility,” she informed Dietrich, who was to instruct her for confirmation now she had turned thirteen. She folded her hands in her lap and sat very straight. “Don’t hesitate to be strict with me. I’m used to it.”
He quickly realized this bit of pomposity was play-acting. She reminded Dietrich of his sisters at that age, bright and good-natured, with light brown hair and pale skin dusted with freckles like Christel’s. Maria was constantly called down by her mother for her high spirits, but her father, who adored her, was another matter. When she stood before the altar of the village church in Pätzig to be confirmed, she made a face at Wedemeyer, who grinned back from the front pew and received a nudge from his wife for reproof. At home afterward, they played at croquet on the lawn. Wedemeyer pretended to mistake Maria’s ball for his own and sent it with a loud whack into a clump of alder bushes. Maria yelled. Wedemeyer grabbed his daughter and pulled her braids while she stomped his foot in a pretend fury.
“Isn’t this one a ridiculous little Miss Mouse! Eh, Pastor Bonhoeffer?”
“Papa!” Maria shrieked. “You are so bad, Papa!” And leaped onto her father’s back, arms around his neck, until both sank to the ground, laughing.
Which was nothing like Dr. Karl Bonhoeffer and Dietrich’s sisters.
Dietrich’s students, most of them respectably middle-class, teased him about his newfound aristocratic friends. He accepted their banter good-naturedly, for he admitted there was something funny about a rather dry academic (so he saw himself) taken in by the family of a country squire. In a time of quiet, it might make an amusing film.
This was not a time of quiet. In the evenings after study was done, the seminarians gathered around the radio in the parlor. The German army had marched unopposed into Austria, whose citizens gathered in the hundreds of thousands to celebrate their inclusion in the Reich.
It’s only right, the seminarians agreed. After all, they’re really Germans. Like us.
Dietrich insisted the radio dial be tuned to the BBC, where the reports of the Anschluss were considerably less exultant.
“The British are frightened,” Dietrich said.
What? Frightened of us? The German people don’t want war with Britain. As long as we are not provoked…
When Hitler returned from Austria the joyous scenes of welcome were repeated. In Stettin, where the seminarians took in a film together, the newsreels ran on for half an hour. Screaming women threw flowers at the soldiers, and burst into tears when Hitler passed by in an open car. Hitler kissed children, accepted nosegays from little girls with neat braids, inspected ranks of Hitler Youth. It was an exciting time to be German, and young.
Back at Finkenwalde seated before the radio as though deep in meditation. The gas lanterns had not been lit, to save fuel, and the faces of the listening seminarians dissolved in the gloom of the summer evening. The news reports claimed that ethnic Germans were being mistreated in the Sudetenland, a region of Czechoslovakia. Hitler demanded that the Sudetenland be turned over to Germany, or he would make war on the Czechs.
The seminarians talked among themselves. No one wanted war. “But if there is a call-up,” one said, “it would be a blessing for us in the Confessing Church. Then we should have a chance to prove we are as patriotic as the pastors of the state church.”
There was general agreement. Dietrich, who had been seated near the window, crushed his cigarette in an ashtray and stood. The students fell silent and looked toward him. “Do you agree, Herr Professor?” one asked.
“No. I don’t agree. It is not our patriotism we must prove, but our faith as Christians. If Germany’s cause is not just, and I believe with all my heart it is not, then to serve in the army would be to crucify Christ once again.”
Why must you always be in opposition? they asked. With due respect, Herr Professor. So wearying to be always in opposition. Can we not make a greater effort for the good if we are also good citizens?
“If you are traveling to Berlin,” Dietrich said, “will you get there by boarding a train going in the opposite direction and walking backward?”
They stayed up until three in the morning, arguing by moonlight. Most of the students were firmly against their teacher’s position. How could one’s country, one’s homeland, be left defenseless? How could anyone see brothers and fathers and friends march away to war and refuse to support them? A minority agreed with Pastor Bonhoeffer that it would be wrong to serve the Nazi state in wartime, but what could one do? To refuse would be punished by death.
What will you do? they pressed him.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
A few weeks later, the Confessing Church council, caught up in the wave of patriotism sweeping the nation, voted to begin closer cooperation with the state church and issued a statement thanking the government for its revitalization of German life. With Niemöller in Sachsenhausen and Bonhoeffer largely ignored, there was little objection. Soon after, an agent of the Gestapo in Stettin arrived in Finkenwalde. Dietrich and the students received the man in the dining room, offered him coffee and biscuits. He declined politely and said he would not take much of their time. It had come to the attention of the government that the Confessing Church was training pastors apart from the state church seminaries. Given the new state of affairs this would no longer be necessary. A fine thing for the Fatherland to have peace among church people, they would all agree. Therefore the Finkenwalde seminary was now closed.
It was somewhat of a relief, everyone agreed, to be thrown back out into the world, away from the hour of silence at the start of the seminary day, away from the dense lectures of Pastor Bonhoeffer, away from his high expectations. Though he was a lovely man. A man to make you stop and think, to challenge you. Indeed, a man you might count on in a real scrape. But a relief nonetheless to be shed of him.
Dietrich was the last to leave. As he walked along the gravel drive, suitcase in hand, a carload of Gestapo agents arrived and, ignoring him, entered the house.
At home in Berlin, he found his brother Karl-Friedrich had come up from Leipzig. After supper Paula Bonhoeffer said, “Father and I are very tired. We’ll go to bed and leave you two boys to talk.”
And Dietrich was left at the table across from Karl-Friedrich, who leaned back and took out his pipe.
“Shall we sit someplace more comfortable?” Dietrich asked.
“I’m fine here. What I have to say won’t take long.”
“What you have to say? You mean this visit was no coincidence? Am I to receive some brotherly lecture and then go to my room like a bad boy?” Dietrich said. “And whom do I have to thank, Mother or Father? Or you?”
“All of us, if that’s your attitude. The fact is, Dietrich, we’re rather worried about you. On several counts. I know Father and Hans have told you something about the current political situation and their involvement in it. I won’t say much about that, since I’ve asked to be left out. But we thought it had been made clear that you must not draw attention to this family just now. Yet Father and Mother say you plan to go to the Confessing Church council to protest its recent actions and to ask for more outspoken opposition to the government’s military buildup.”
“And its treatment of Jews, which worsens every day.”
“Whatever noble reason you may have, it would be best if you remain quiet. There is your own safety to consider. No one wants to see you in prison with Niemöller, and Mother especially is distraught at the prospect. But if that doesn’t concern you, you might consider Sabine and Gerhard. They’ve been harassed by the Gestapo and may have to make a run for it at any time. If you bring notoriety to the family, it won’t do them any good.”
“Notoriety. Good God.” Dietrich drummed his fingers on the table. “Hans asked me to stay in Pomerania with my students. Well, there are no more students in Pomerania. And perhaps
no more Confessing Church unless the council is moved to reverse its actions. Is that worth a risk? You and Walter risked your lives in the Great War. Hans is risking his life now. May I not risk my life for my church?”
“But the sensitivity of the times—”
“I am not stupid, Karl-Friedrich. I know what the times are, and I have no intention of drawing any notice to Hans and what he is doing. But if the plan is to dispense with Hitler and bring in someone else to rule, do you or anyone else believe that will succeed if the church has gone over to the side of Satan in the meantime? Can you ask the German people to turn against the Nazis if even the church will not do so?”
“And the rest of the family? We have no feelings, no concerns?”
“No one is more concerned about Sabine than I am,” Dietrich said angrily. “If the danger is so great, and it is, then it is time for Sabine and Gerhard to go. Much as I shall miss them, I will tell them so myself. As for Mother and Father, I am sorry they are worried. But if my parents want to spare me the fate that thousands of others are suffering every day, there is nothing I can say to them. We are no better than the others.”
“And nothing will change your mind?”
“No. My mind is made up. But I’m curious. You said you have asked to be spared knowledge of the conspiracy. Why?”
“Some man of the family must stay clear of all this for the sake of Mother and our sisters and children,” Karl-Friedrich said. “It seems clear that role has fallen to me.”
“Then take that role by all means. But leave me another.”
Karl-Friedrich watched him through a curtain of smoke. “You also refused more knowledge of the conspiracy,” he said. “Hans told me. I ask you as well, why?”
Dietrich felt himself suddenly run to ground. He searched for words. “If they try to kill Hitler—”
“—you don’t want your hands dirty? For the sake of your religious convictions, I suppose.” Karl-Friedrich laughed. “You Christians. You’ll make sure you don’t endanger the salvation of your precious souls, but you don’t mind if someone else does the dirty work for you. Give me an atheist any day.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going upstairs. Go out and rouse your church council if you want. But stay away from Hans.”
He went, having heard the council would be meeting at the Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial Church. Went knowing that those likely to be most sympathetic to his plea were either in concentration camps or under surveillance. Was met at the door of the meeting room by Pastor Braun, who said, “Bonhoeffer. We know why you are here, and we don’t want to hear it. We’re tired of you sowing dissension in this church.”
And shut the door in Dietrich’s face.
SS-Hauptsturmführer Alois Bauer longed to talk with his friend Adolf Eichmann, but Eichmann had been away since the Anschluss. He had a new job in Vienna organizing an Office of Jewish Emigration. Jews from all over Austria were forced to register and receive exit visas, so that the Reich’s new territories might be rid of them once and for all. Eichmann was in contact with governments all over the world, even traveled himself to Palestine, in search of a place to ship the Austrian Jews. It isn’t so easy, he had written Bauer, as Britain and France and the United States don’t want more Jews. Certainly the Russians and Poles and Ukrainians don’t want more Jews. He thought he might find some land in the interior of Argentina and ship entire boatloads there, but nothing was firm yet. Still Jews were leaving Austria in greater numbers than in Germany, and Adolf Eichmann was becoming known in Berlin as a man who could get things done.
Bauer was happy for his friend. He had himself been sunk in a strange ennui whose source baffled him. These were, after all, heady days, as the Führer bluffed and threatened and cajoled and schemed and made bloody fools out of Germany’s enemies. It looked as though the British would fight over Czechoslovakia. Bauer found the prospect rousing, but did not trust the British to carry through. In any event, he had begun to suspect his problem was metaphysical and therefore not easily resolved. For him, despite his commitment to National Socialism, something was missing. Then he discovered the Future.
When Eichmann finally visited Berlin, Bauer was a rejuvenated man. They met in the dining room of the Adlon. Bauer was carrying a book under his arm. He clapped Eichmann upon the back, pointed out that other officers in the dining room were staring at them.
“You know what they are saying, my friend? They are saying, ‘Isn’t that Eichmann up from Vienna? The chap we’ve heard so much about?’”
Eichmann waved a bashful hand and laughed, his face pink as a broiled salmon.
“And how is your wife?” Bauer asked.
“Fine, fine. She went to Jerusalem with me, enjoyed it immensely. And you? Anyone special these days?”
“Me? No. No time for that right now. No matter. There are some damn fine whores in this town.”
Then a pack of waiters descended. A pale Moselle was decanted and silver covers were lifted from platters of roast pork, and eels in green sauce. Dumplings and stewed apples and sauerkraut arrived, and dark green Brussels sprouts drenched in butter were ladled onto plates. The food was so hot that steam rose to cloud the window looking out on Unter den Linden, and traffic passed outside in a misty haze.
The talk over dinner was of the latest SS gossip and the Czech crisis. Eichmann thought there would be war, Bauer disagreed. Later they retired to the hotel bar. Only then did Bauer show Eichmann the book he’d brought with him. Eichmann turned the book over several times and frowned.
“The Futurist Manifesto,” he said in a puzzled voice. “By some Italian.”
“The Führer is very keen on Italy as an ally,” Bauer said defensively.
“Yes, but what’s this all about? Can’t even pronounce the fellow’s name.”
“Marinetti. F. T. Marinetti. Don’t worry, he’s a good fascist. Mussolini admires him immensely.”
“But it’s not Mein Kampf.”
“Is Mein Kampf the only worthwhile book in the world?”
Eichmann shrugged good-naturedly. “I suppose not. But it’s the only one I have to like.”
Bauer took the book and began flipping through dog-eared pages thick with underlining until he found what he was looking for. “Listen to this. We stand at the apex of time! We glorify war, which purifies the world. We will destroy the museums and libraries and places of dull study which sap the spirit of humanity. Today, we proclaim Futurism, so we may free our nation from the rot of professors and archaeologists and critics. We will free Italy from the numberless museums that cover her like so many graveyards.” He shut the book with a clap. “Not just Italy! The Fatherland as well! When all else is done, it’s what we will lack for perfection. Look here, Hitler has given us the political vision, the racial vision, even the artistic vision where content is concerned. But this is one step further. This is the spiritual vision.”
Eichmann was staring at him with a bewildered expression. “It’s all very interesting, I’m sure. But I don’t see—”
“The museums!” Bauer leaned forward. “The museums and the universities. They’re destroying the culture of the Fatherland. Even the Führer, wise as he is, hasn’t grasped it yet. All this art tacked onto museum walls like the corpses of frogs in a dissecting room. Precious manuscripts locked away in vaults like—like—”
Eichmann waited, glass of whiskey in hand, nodding. “Like?” he encouraged.
Bauer ran his hand through his hair and glared at the ceiling, then looked at Eichmann. “We treat our great art worse than we treat our Jews. “Yes,” he nodded his head emphatically, “that’s it. Jews run here and yon across the Fatherland spreading like vermin and we lock up our great art.” He picked up the book and laid it in his lap, comforted by the feel of the smooth cover against his thigh.
“So.” Eichmann looked thoughtful. “I see some of what you are getting at.”
“The Mozart manuscript,” Bauer said softly. “The Mass in C Minor I saw in the Prussian State Library several years ago. So s
ad. Do you know what I’ve decided? I’m going back to look at it again. Often, so those damned curators will know I’ve got my eye on them. And someday, by God, I’ll see the Mass out of that place. Art should live among the people. If it is worth anything, the Volk will see that it is preserved. Otherwise let it go down the sewer.”
“You’re sure the Mozart would survive if it were taken from its vaults?”
Bauer smiled. “There is nothing on this earth of which I am more certain. The German people would die for Mozart.”
“Well, then.” Eichmann raised his glass. “To Mozart. But Alois, not to worry about the Jews. That’s why I’ve been called to Berlin this week. There’s a change of plan.”
Dietrich dreamed often of Sabine and she of him. They dreamed of losing their way in the Thuringian Forest, losing their way in the Harz Mountains, losing their way in Sabine’s garden in Göttingen, wandering beneath the fruit trees calling out each other’s name. They even dreamed of losing each other in the marshes of Pomerania, though Sabine had never been there. She knew the place somehow, or at least a dream version of it.
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