“Yes,” Dietrich agreed, and wondered if Hans could read his mind. He sipped his beer and surveyed the room, which was filling up with a variety of low-ranking functionaries of the SS and the government ministries, the clerks who could not afford the Adlon or the Bristol but were happy enough basking in the refracted light of the Führer’s brother.
“What is it then?” Dohnanyi asked.
“Elisabeth has turned up. She’s waiting in my room right now.” Dietrich waited for the expected outburst, but Dohnanyi said nothing, so he continued, “They’ve begun to round up Berlin’s Jews for deportation. Perhaps this is not news to you.”
“We knew it would come soon,” Dohnanyi said, “though we only got the dates today. We now expect more transports on the twenty-third and twenty-eighth of October.”
“You might have told me.”
“You knew something like this would happen,” Dohnanyi answered. “You knew of the deportations in Stettin. As we agreed in our previous conversations, the saving of Jews is not your assignment. I didn’t think the exact dates should be a concern of yours.”
“They have become my concern,” Dietrich said, and told Dohnanyi everything that had happened that day, speaking quietly but never taking his eyes off his brother-in-law. “You see, the die has been cast,” he concluded, “and I cannot go backward. I will do what I can for Elisabeth, whatever the consequences.”
He had expected Dohnanyi to interrupt, but he remained silent, rubbed his face wearily with one hand. Dietrich offered him a cigarette, lit one for himself. When Dohnanyi did speak, it was to ask quietly, “Have you given any thought to what you can do with her? It isn’t so easy, you know.”
“She’s safe enough in my room for the time being,” Dietrich said. “If she isn’t there long, my parents won’t even have to know. Father is hard of hearing, though he won’t admit it, and Elisabeth knows to be very quiet when my mother is on the first floor. Besides, they seldom come to my room, because they don’t like to disturb my writing. And I often take my meals there, so that will not surprise them. Elisabeth can eat the food sent up for me, and I’ll find something elsewhere. Meanwhile I thought you might know how I can locate her husband. If she insists on following him, we must make certain he is in Smolensk and that she will be able to find him without difficulty once she arrives. Otherwise it would not be safe to let her go—”
“Dietrich,” Dohnanyi broke in. He twisted uncomfortably on his bench. “Dietrich, she must not go to Smolensk.”
“But she insists that they stay together.”
“I don’t care what she insists. The Jews of Smolensk won’t remain there very long. They’ll be moved into some new camps being built in Poland and Czechoslovakia.”
“Labor camps? Will the conditions be worse than in the ghettos?”
Dohnanyi stubbed out his cigarette. “I have some information that I have been waiting for the right time to share. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I know of your desire to help the Jews and because what I have to tell you is so unbelievable and appalling I was afraid it would cause you to do something rash. The details have not been officially decided upon yet, and won’t be until after the New Year. But the government is making plans to kill the Jews. All of them.”
Dietrich stared at him.
“They’re meeting in January at Wannsee to come to a final decision. You already know about the mass executions in the Ukraine, the shootings, the vans filled with carbon monoxide. That’s all too slow for them. They’re building camps where they hope to be able to kill thousands of people a day using lethal injections and gas chambers and crematoria. They plan to ‘cleanse’ Europe of Jews. Their terminology. If the government is convinced that the plan is efficient it will go into effect immediately after Wannsee. And since I have seen a report from our office which demonstrates that the Wehrmacht will be able to incorporate such a plan into the war effort, I see nothing to prevent them trying to carry it out.”
Dietrich’s stomach churned. He shoved away his glass of beer and pushed his way through the drunken crowd, up the steps, and outside into the cold night air. Dohnanyi tossed a couple of Reichsmarks on the table and followed, found Dietrich leaning against the wall outside. Dietrich began to walk away very fast.
“Dietrich! All the more reason to push ahead with—”
“Don’t come near me! Don’t—Just leave me be! I want nothing to do with any of you!”
Dohnanyi caught up to Dietrich and grabbed his arm. Dietrich turned and shoved Dohnanyi so hard against a wall that his hat rolled into a gutter. Dietrich retrieved the hat and handed it to the shaken Hans, then walked away and left him standing there.
He took the tram, so crowded he had to stand on a running board, to Adolf-Hitler-Platz. At a corner market about to close for the evening he was able with his coupons to buy a small loaf of black bread, a sliver of Mainzer cheese the size of two fingers, and a six-inch-long Leberwurst. He walked up the Heerstraße with this treasure, Elisabeth’s supper, bundled in his arms. By the time he reached the Marienburger Allee it was after eight o’clock. His mother heard him on the stairs and opened her bedroom door.
“Dietrich? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mother.” He stopped and she came into the hall wearing a bathrobe.
“There hasn’t been any trouble?”
“No, don’t worry.” He kissed her on the forehead. “You’re going to bed early.”
“Yes, it was a tiring day. Suse dug a straw pit, just as we did in the Wangenheimstraße during the Great War, and we spent the day filling it with cabbages and potatoes and apples from their garden. I expect there’ll be shortages this winter, don’t you? Suse says Christel and the children have put up quite a bit as well. Your father’s gone to bed. He has a cold and didn’t want to aggravate it.” She noticed the food he was carrying. “You haven’t eaten?”
“Not yet. I stopped at the market, since I missed supper.”
“There’s potato soup in the icebox, and some nice bits of bacon in it. You must heat it up.”
“Thanks, I will. Good night.”
He hoped Elisabeth had heard him coming, for his mother would wonder if he knocked at his own door. He pushed it open slowly and whispered, “It’s Dietrich.”
She was sitting in the dark at the desk.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” she said. “I was afraid to put up the blackout curtain. I thought your parents might go out and notice and wonder who had done it.”
He covered the window and she turned on the desk lamp. She had put on her own clothes and looked tired and worried.
“Sorry I was so long. It must have been terrible for you sitting here in the dark alone, and without any supper.”
“Being hungry wasn’t the worst part. You didn’t find him, did you?”
He shook his head. “No. Though I’ve learned some things.”
“You must tell me! You may think it best to spare me, but that would be the worst of all, not to know the truth.”
“Won’t you eat first? You’ll feel much better.”
“How can I feel better, not knowing what is happening to Hermann?”
He had been agonizing all the way home over how much to tell her, how much she needed to know to make a wise decision, how much to sustain hope, how much to survive. He held out his hands and led her to sit by him on the edge of the bed, put his arms around her and held her close. She began to tremble as though expecting the worst.
“I have been to the Scheunenviertel,” he said. “I have seen the deportations underway. I spoke with the SS officer in charge, and have been to Hans as well. Here is what I know.”
And he told her everything he had seen and heard at the Jewish Home for the Elderly, including the shots in the cemetery, including the assertions of Hubertus about the extent of the deportations and the impossibility of trying to release a doctor. He told her the destination, Smolensk. And he told her the deportations would continue through October until most of the Jews of the Reich
had been sent East.
He did not tell her about the death camps.
She listened. Only once did she interrupt, to ask, “Do you think they have shot him?”
“I don’t know,” he had said. “How would he have acted at the detention area?”
“He is a brave man,” she had said proudly. “He would have spoken up if he thought it necessary. He would have told them he is a doctor and would have asked if there were sick children who needed tending. He would not have acted afraid.” Then her pride had given way to fear and she had listened again until he was done, when she said, “I must go to Smolensk. I must try to find him. It cannot be any worse there than in the Scheunenviertel.”
“It may be,” Dietrich said cautiously.
“Not if I am to be alone here.”
“Elisabeth, we must think of alternatives. You must help me.”
“You don’t understand.” She stood up. “There’s something else I haven’t told you. I don’t know for certain—perhaps it’s too early to say—but I believe I’m pregnant.” She paced back and forth. “If it is true, I have to tell him. I have to be with him when I have our baby.” Then she saw Dietrich’s face.
“What?” she said.
“You can’t go to Smolensk. Especially if you are pregnant.”
“But I’m probably not even two months along. There shouldn’t be any danger in traveling. You said yourself there will be more transports at the end of the month.”
“Yes. That is the horror of it. Elisabeth, you can’t go to Smolensk. You must hide. You must save your life, and if you don’t care about that you must save the life of your child. Hans has told me. The trains for the East are death trains. The Nazis are building new camps especially for killing Jews in gas chambers. They don’t want a Jew left alive.”
She would have shrieked had he not caught her and clapped his hand over her mouth. She fought him, beating against his chest, kicking him, dragging him onto the bed until the need to breathe at last exhausted her and she began to gag and gasp for air.
Elisabeth lay on her back with the bedclothes pulled to her chin. She had refused the food Dietrich offered, refused to speak. Dietrich was on the floor in the sleeping sack he took on hiking trips in the Harz Mountains. He listened for the sound of her breathing, to know if she slept or wept, but she seemed determined not to let him hear anything.
“Elisabeth?” he said.
She didn’t answer.
He turned on his side and shut his eyes but did not sleep. After a time she said in a flat voice, “Are you still writing?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And what do you write about at a time like this?”
“The same things I would write in more normal times, except with more urgency.”
“Nothing more? My God, at least the Nazis are taking risks.”
“What would you have me do?” he asked wearily.
“Be as good as my husband,” she said in a hard voice.
“That, it seems, is impossible.”
“Ah! I am making you angry! Good. I want you to hate me as much as I hate Germans. And you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Will hatred save your child?”
“I don’t want to save my child. Who wants to bring a child into such a world?”
“Would you say that to Hermann?” When she didn’t answer, he raised up on one elbow and asked, “Suppose there were Germans who, after a great deal of soul-searching and cowardice, got the nerve to do away with Hitler?”
“It’s too late,” she said fiercely. “Don’t expect me to weep for you. Or to stay here any longer. I’d rather die among my own people.”
She threw off the covers and began gathering up her clothes. Dietrich scrambled from his sleeping sack.
“Wait!” he cried. “You can’t leave!”
“You can’t prevent me!”
“No! Listen to me! Only a few days. I shall go out tomorrow and find a place of my own that’s suitable and conceal you there myself.”
“No!”
“Hate me if you want, I don’t care! But you and your child—”
They were both stopped by the creaking of the stairs. They looked at each other, then Dietrich went to the door and cautiously opened it. His mother stood there, holding a steaming kettle between two potholders. “I doubt either of you have eaten a bite, have you?” she said as she came into the room. “It would be a shame to waste such lovely potato soup. Especially since I found us short of milk and Cook had to improvise with water and flour. Dietrich, did you think I wouldn’t notice? Now go downstairs and get some bowls and spoons. I couldn’t carry everything.”
Elisabeth leaned against an armchair, weary as an animal run to ground. The blouse she had been clutching fell to the floor. Paula Bonhoeffer set the kettle of soup on the desk and held out her arms. Elisabeth began to sob. Paula drew her onto the chair, cradling Elisabeth on her lap like a mother comforting a small child. She caught Dietrich’s eye and nodded sharply. He went out at once, closing the door behind him.
Hans von Dohnanyi arrived just after dark the next evening and climbed the stairs to the attic, where he found Dietrich working at his desk and Elisabeth reading a book. She started when she saw him and watched warily while he took a chair and sat down.
Dietrich said, “I must apologize for last night. I had no business to treat you as I did.”
Dohnanyi nodded, said, “I have forgotten it.” Then, to Elisabeth, “I have tried to find out more about your husband, but without luck, I’m afraid. It may be possible to locate him once the transports arrive in Smolensk, but I’m not hopeful. In any event, if he were able, I’m sure he would advise you not to try and follow him. He would want you to look out for your own safety.”
“And how am I to do that?” Elisabeth asked.
Dietrich wondered as well, and said to Dohnanyi, “Elisabeth believes she may be pregnant.”
“All the more reason,” Dohnanyi said. “It would be better for all concerned if we could get you out of the country. I needn’t tell you that will be difficult, but it may be possible. I have been meeting with Admiral Canaris and General Hans Oster all morning at the War Ministry. It seems they also have Jewish friends they would like to help out of the country. I have also been in touch with an old law professor of mine who is now in hiding with his wife. Seven people altogether, counting you, Elisabeth.”
She looked away. “Only seven out of so many millions. And because we are fortunate enough to know people in the Abwehr.”
“I’m aware this is a pitiful response. But your seven deaths will not save the millions. And what we propose in this situation won’t work with a large group. Dietrich, the idea is yours, really. I told Oster what you had done yesterday. He thought your actions, while rash, were basically quite sound. You see, the only way we can openly protect a group of Jews in full view of the SS is if they are working as confidential agents for the Abwehr.”
“I will not work for you,” Elisabeth said sharply.
Dohnanyi raised his hand. “I have just been to see my professor friend on the way here. He said the same. But it will be a ruse. We will get you into Switzerland, ostensibly to spy on the emigrant community in Zurich. But in fact you will do nothing of the sort. You will have to report to the German consulate from time to time, but you needn’t tell anything of substance. And the consul there, Gisevius, is one of us.”
Elisabeth looked at Dietrich. “It will work,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“And Hermann?” she asked, her eyes filling.
“As a physician, he would be useful in a camp,” Dohnanyi said, “and that gives me hope that he would not be killed right away. Perhaps he can survive long enough for this ordeal to be over. But there’s no question of your joining him.”
“I want to think about this.”
“You needn’t decide for a few more days.” Dohnanyi reached into his jacket and pulled out
a square of paper. “But first, something essential. This is a safe-conduct pass from the Abwehr.” He handed it to her. “You must carry this with you at all times, even indoors. If you are picked up, or harassed in any way, show it at once.” He stood. “I would recommend you stay here a few more days, but continue to keep out of sight. For reasons I won’t go into, we can’t have you living here very long.”
“Hans,” Dietrich interrupted. “Shouldn’t the family have some say in that?”
“We’ll relocate you as soon as possible,” Dohnanyi continued as though Dietrich hadn’t spoken. “I warn you, this will not be easy or quick. We may have to put you in one of the factories for several months, perhaps in a barracks with Russian slave laborers, until we can sort out all the red tape. But it’s better than the alternative.”
“And there is no question of her remaining in this room?” Dietrich insisted. “She has the safe-conduct pass now, and Mother and Father say they are prepared to take the risk.”
“I’m not,” said Dohnanyi. “You can’t even tell me for certain that none of your neighbors knows of Elisabeth’s presence, and when the transports are finished, there may be house-to-house searches for those in hiding. It’s a large enough risk to carry out the plan I’m proposing. If the least thing goes wrong, we shall all be lost, and more than we. Please allow me to do this as safely as possible.”
“Hans is right,” Elisabeth said, to Dietrich’s surprise. “I’ve learned something about survival these last few years. There’s no sense in taking needless chances. I’ll go wherever you send me.”
“Thank you,” Dohnanyi said. He took Elisabeth’s hand and bowed over it. “It would be best if we don’t meet in person again, but I shall stay in touch through Dietrich. Keep faith.”
When he had gone, Elisabeth said, “You’re involved in something, aren’t you?”
Dietrich sighed. “So I’m told.”
“What you said last night, about an overthrow—”
“—should be forgotten,” he finished for her.
She looked at him steadily. “It is.”
Once the servants were gone and the windows covered for the night, Elisabeth was invited downstairs. She shared the Bonhoeffers’ frugal supper of cabbage and carrot soup and the Leberwurst left from the night before. Suse, who often came to visit because her husband was serving a chaplaincy with the army in Greece, was there as well with her small son. After the dishes had been cleared, Dietrich and Suse played duets on piano and violin and Paula sang, while Elisabeth sat at the chessboard with Karl Bonhoeffer and little Michael. Then Suse and Michael went home, the elder Bonhoeffers retired for the night, and Dietrich and Elisabeth climbed the stairs to the attic like an old married couple.
Saints and Villains Page 39
