Saints and Villains

by Denise Giardina

  Except they were not.

  When Dietrich turned on the desk lamp, Elisabeth saw his face just as he was composing it.

  She said, “Oh, Dietrich. This is very painful for you, isn’t it? Personally, I mean. And I haven’t given a thought to that.”

  He shook his head and turned away, pretended to be searching through the papers on the desk.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “No, no. It was over between us years ago, and it would be a very great sin for me to resent your life with Hermann. There is much more to be concerned with than any leftover feelings of mine.”

  He sat at the desk, took off his glasses, and wiped them with his handkerchief. Elisabeth watched him fondly, recalling his shyness and awkwardness when they made love, as though he was amazed each time to find himself with her.

  “I should never have slept with you,” he said. “It was wrong. Perhaps I have been punished for that.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “My views of the sanctity of marriage. You know my views—”

  “Don’t wish the past away. I’ve never regretted it. You mustn’t either. Besides, you’ll find someone else to love.”

  He shook his head. “In times like these, better for me to remain celibate.”

  She laughed. “Silly goose! I’ve always suspected you were a Catholic at heart, but don’t go turning priest on me. You’ll make a wonderful husband and father, and as for the times, well, all the more reason we need each other.” She went to him and put her arms around him. “Dear, dear Dietrich,” she said. “You don’t stop caring about one person just because you grow to love another.”

  He stood and put his hand on top of her head, as he had always liked to do.

  Neither was ready to sleep. Time for that when all this is over, Elisabeth said. Dietrich went downstairs and returned with a pot of weak tea and two slices of poppyseed cake Suse had brought from Dahlem. He turned on the shortwave radio. A strident-voiced announcer was proudly proclaiming that German troops had reached within eighty miles of Moscow, and went on to play an excerpt from the Führer’s speech in Cologne that day.

  Dietrich said, “Shall we break as many laws as we can?”

  “Why not?” said Elisabeth.

  He twisted the needle to the BBC. They listened to the news, which included a report that the Rt. Rev. George Bell, Bishop of Chichester, had addressed the House of Lords on the plight of Jewish refugees being held in internment camps in Britain. These people suffered greatly under the Nazi regime, the bishop said, and came to our shores to escape persecution. Britain has nothing to fear from them, and it is hypocritical to hold them in detention camps while criticizing Hitler’s policies toward the Jews….

  Elisabeth said wistfully, “I wonder how it is with Papa.”

  “George will look out for him,” Dietrich said.

  The BBC switched to a concert live from the Palladium—subject to interruption by bombing, the announcer said jauntily, as though warning of showers at a cricket match. And now Carroll Gibbons and his Savoy Hotel Orchestra, accompanied by that lovely young songbird Anne Shelton.

  The sweet sound of piano and horns filled the room.

  I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places

  That my heart and mind embraces all day through….

  I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new

  I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.

  Dietrich stood in the middle of the room and offered Elisabeth his hand. He took her in his arms, and they danced.

  WHEN THE JEWS MOVE INTO THE LARGE OLD HOUSE in Dahlem, there is gossip in the neighborhood. The house itself stands apart, partly hidden in a grove of beech trees on the edge of the Grunewald. It remained empty for five years after its owner, an eccentric old woman who lived alone, died without heirs. A jumble of brick and stone, it is somewhat derelict, with a leaking roof and unreliable plumbing, but good enough for these Jews, since the rest have been sent East to help with the war effort. This bunch is also engaged in some sort of war work. No one knows how this bit of information got out, but if Herr Graber, who owns the butcher shop in Königin-Luise-Straße, thought hard enough, he might recall a local pastor’s wife, Susanne Dress, mentioning it. What sort of war work no one knows, but it is obviously confidential, and these particular Jews are too valuable to be sent to some munitions factory in the East. The most likely rumor is that they are scientists—one knows how bright the Jews can be—or cryptanalysts engaged in cracking top-secret British codes. After several weeks pass, and it is clear the Jews are keeping to themselves as much as possible, interest in them dies down. The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor and the United States has entered the war. Much more pressing matters to discuss.

  Though the code name remains Operation 7, there are now fifteen Jews involved. Six of them, who had no place to go, live in the Dahlem house, which Suse noticed was large, isolated, and empty. The other nine are scattered throughout Berlin. Elisabeth Fliess has been allowed to keep her cold-water flat in Fürstenburgstraße, since the government has not yet decided what to do with all of the newly empty living quarters in the Scheunenviertel. Hers are the only occupied rooms except for an elderly couple on the third floor. During the air raids, which are fortunately infrequent, she is not allowed into the basement shelter with them, but must huddle in the ground-floor stairwell. She does not see Hans von Dohnanyi or Dietrich, who has been ordered to stay away from her, but once a month an envelope containing food coupons and a few Reichsmarks is slipped beneath the door of her flat. She also finds a book or two outside her door on occasion, and suspects Dietrich is responsible, but she never sees who leaves them. She keeps her safe-conduct pass in the pocket of her skirt and stays indoors as much as possible, thinks of herself as under house arrest.

  Helping the Jews of Operation 7 has been more difficult than even Hans von Dohnanyi expected. The SS has grudgingly accepted the explanation that these Jews are to be used in intelligence work (Why not? Dohnanyi has argued. We use Jews in other countries, why not German Jews?), but Hans has seen the raised eyebrows, even among some of his Abwehr colleagues, and knows he is the subject of skeptical gossip. Even with the protection of the head of the Abwehr himself, Admiral Canaris, he is terrified by what he has undertaken.

  Then there is the red tape. Dohnanyi must deal not only with the Reich Security Office but with the Labor Office. He must be vigilant lest the names of the fifteen inadvertently show up on the transport lists (The Dahlem group has already come close to being picked up.) The Jews must have food coupons and a bit of cash. There is the foreign currency exchange to consider, since there will be restrictions on taking Reichsmarks out of the country. And the Swiss. Will they even issue entry visas? Nothing has been agreed to, though Dietrich has traveled to Zurich about the matter and Gisevius at the consulate is helping as well. But how will the new arrivals live? Dietrich has a personal promise that Willem Visser’t Hooft will help Elisabeth, but what of the others? All this takes time, and Dohnanyi must not let it seem that Operation 7 interferes with the rest of his work.

  Christmas is approaching, but Berlin is not festive. Though the city has been bombed only sporadically, people are worried. The blackout and other restrictions preclude any seasonal decorations. Food shortages are not yet severe, and there are even some luxury items available to those with money, because the bounty of France and the other captive nations is flowing into the Reich. But rationing is tight. A hedge against the future, and well advised, since the German army is retreating from Moscow through snow and bitter cold, leaving thousands of fallen comrades behind. It is the first setback of the war, after people had come to believe there would be no setbacks.

  Dietrich hears of the deaths of several former Finkenwalde students who were serving with the army. Even as he mourns them, he hopes. Hitler, as stunned as the German people at the setback, has dismissed General Brauchitsch and taken personal command of the armed forces. For many
generals it is the last straw, and talk of a coup has begun again. Dietrich has told Visser’t Hooft it is the light at the end of the tunnel, that the war will be ending soon.

  At Christmas he agrees to accompany his parents to a concert. The Bonhoeffers have been boycotting most concerts because so many include a selection by Wagner and they will not hear Hitler’s favorite composer, nor do they like the conductor von Karajan. But this night Wilhelm Furtwängler will conduct selections by Handel and, in its entirety, Mozart’s Great Mass in C Minor.

  All his life, Dietrich has avoided the Große Meße as assiduously as he now does Wagner. He cannot hear the Kyrie without being transported back to his childhood and the failed audition at the Berlin Conservatory. But his parents want his company and he has not attended a concert for some time, so he relents. Silly to avoid a piece of music because of childish disappointments.

  At the intermission, after the Handel, Dietrich remarks on the warmth of the concert hall.

  “Warm?” his mother says. “But it seems quite cold to me, despite the crowd. You know they barely heat public buildings these days.” Then looks at her son more closely. “Your cheeks are red.” Touches his face with the back of her hand. “Dietrich, you’re burning up.”

  Indeed he is growing aware of an ache in his limbs and a tenderness of the skin which presage a fever.

  “When we get home,” he says, “I shall go straight to bed.”

  “Should we leave now?” asks his father.

  “No. I’m not that sick. Furtwängler is in top form. You must enjoy the music.”

  He shuts his eyes at the beginning of the Mass and feels as though the Kyrie is taking the top of his head off, that he is leaving his body and floating above the music.

  Afterward, on the way out, he stumbles and bumps into an SS officer who wanders carelessly in front of him. They stare at each other, each with unnaturally bright eyes, each thinking the other looks vaguely familiar. They say I beg your pardon in dreamy voices, and move on.

  The next morning Dietrich has a fever of 102, and it continues to climb. The doctor is called and diagnoses double pneumonia. When the fever fails to abate, Dietrich lies near death and the family keeps a vigil at his bedside. In her chilly flat, Elisabeth stares out the grimy window at electrical wires scabbed with frost and waits for news.

  Top government officials meet at a resort overlooking the Großer Wannsee to decide once and for all how to deal with the Jewish Question. Alois Bauer, newly promoted a Sturmbannführer, is present. He receives congratulations from all sides for his fine work against the underground in Poland. Alois Bauer has become an expert in counterintelligence investigations. Since November he has been called back to Berlin to deal with a rumored Communist spy ring in the heart of the Reich. He believes he is making progress.

  Despite his own bright prospects, Bauer is gloomy, and says so to his friend Adolf Eichmann over breakfast in the terrace restaurant above the lake. There is a single black spot on the pristine white surface below, a duck held fast by rapidly freezing ice.

  “I don’t like it,” Bauer says in a low voice. “It’s the middle of a war, goddamn it, and we’ve suffered a serious reverse this winter. Now America joining in. Can we spare the resources for this?”

  Eichmann shrugs. “It seems to be a priority.”

  “A priority, perhaps, but what’s wrong with waiting until after the war? It’s not as though the Jews are going anywhere. Besides, they’re providing free labor.”

  “Himmler thinks we’ve enough Russians to take their place.”

  “That can’t be counted on to last. If you want my opinion, the Führer is getting bad advice.”

  “Perhaps,” Eichmann agrees, “but you must admit a good man is now on the job.”

  “Well,” Bauer says, “if anyone can pull this off, you can, my friend.”

  Eichmann smiles at the flattery and orders two fried eggs and a rasher of bacon.

  “An American breakfast,” Bauer says.

  “Have you been there?”

  “America? No. I should like to go sometime. After we’ve beaten them. Or at least made peace with them.”

  “A lot like us, the Americans,” says Eichmann. “Bold. Expansive. Know who they are. Damn the Japanese for dragging them into this. If I could, I’d trade the Japs for the Americans any day.”

  Bauer shakes his head. “Can’t always choose your friends.”

  The fever breaks. Dietrich soaks two sets of bedclothes with sweat before settling into a deep, exhausted sleep. Now and then he slides into consciousness, notes the faces of his mother, then Suse and Christel, then his mother again. Then Hans von Dohnanyi.

  “Good news and bad news,” Dohnanyi says as from a great distance. “The Swiss have given us the entrance visas, and it appears exit visas will also be available. At least, the Gestapo aren’t blocking us so far. The bad news. The Swiss will let them in but they won’t let them work. Which means I have to come up with enough funds to sustain them indefinitely. How, I don’t know. It will take several more months to arrange.”

  Dietrich sleeps.

  He sits up in a pile of pillows and sips a bowl of oxtail soup. The spoon rings against the bottom of the bowl. Dohnanyi takes the bowl and Dietrich settles back on the pillows. He shuts his eyes and asks, “How are you managing?”

  Dohnanyi shrugs. “It’s complicated. Shifting funds from one account to another. Playing with the figures. Changing currency on the sly.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Of course not.” Dohnanyi lights a pair of cigarettes and hands one over. “Do you have a will?”

  “No.”

  “I’d draw one up, if I were you.”

  Dietrich blows smoke at the ceiling. “It’s so bad?”

  Dohnanyi says, “I have a friendly informant at Gestapo headquarters in the Alexanderplatz. He told me last week an order has gone out to tap my telephone, and yours, and to intercept our mail.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing yet, he doesn’t think. But they’re just waiting for something to make them more suspicious. And I must warn you, I’ve got some enemies within the Abwehr as well. As the war goes badly, the patriots grow restless.”

  “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Dohnanyi says. “You didn’t create the Nazi policy toward the Jews.”

  “You warned me not to become involved.”

  “And you were right to ignore me in this case. When someone you love stands before you and begs for help, you can’t turn away. We wouldn’t deserve to succeed if we did that. Besides, the plot is taking on a life of its own. If something happens to you and me, it will go on without us. We’ve passed beyond caution. From now on, we travel light.”

  “Any news of Elisabeth?” Dietrich asks.

  “I post someone outside her building now and then. She goes out now and then to the shops. Her pregnancy is beginning to show.”

  “We must get her to Switzerland before her baby is born,” Dietrich says. “It isn’t just that she will need medical care. If there’s a child involved, the paperwork will be delayed even more.”

  “Yes,” Dohnanyi agrees. “I’m going to send her out ahead of the others.”

  THE JEWESS ELISABETH FLIESS FOUND HERSELF BEFRIENDED by the elderly couple in her building, the Holzers. The situation with the air-raid shelter—the “ridiculous situation,” as Frau Holzer called it—broke the ice. For when Frau Holzer went down the stairs to the basement upon hearing the warning sirens, she could not ignore the sight of the pregnant woman huddling forlornly in the stairwell. “So it’s against the law for Jews to be in the shelter with Aryans,” she said to her husband, a retired bank clerk, as they waited below. “Who ever comes to our basement? Who will know? And are we to live for seventy years only to turn our backs on a poor girl trying to hide from the bombs? What would Seppi think, who has always been such a thoughtful boy?” (Seppi was their only child, a corporal in the Wehrmacht who, though
they did not know it, lay in frozen purity beneath four feet of ice somewhere west of Moscow.)

  The invitation to the shelter led to a sharing of rations. Elisabeth reciprocated, for, thanks to her mysterious visitors from the Abwehr, she sometimes had foodstuffs unavailable to the Holzers. The Holzers offered to do Elisabeth’s shopping so she need not be out in the streets. There followed an invitation to sit with the old people in the evening. Theirs was a plain flat, one room holding an iron bedstead and battered wood chest, the other a stove, table and chairs, and threadbare sofa. The walls were decorated with out-of-date calendars with rural winter scenes, and photographs of Bismarck, Kaiser Wilhelm, and the Führer. The Holzers learned enough about Elisabeth to realize she was a Special Case of some kind. A ward of the Reich. Not that this mattered so much. While they would not openly risk their lives for her, they had never considered themselves anti-Semites, indeed, would never have lived in the Scheunenviertel in the first place if they had been. They didn’t understand all the fuss over the Jews, said this to Elisabeth over and over, and they trusted the Führer. If the Führer had allowed Elisabeth to stay in Berlin, there must be a good reason.

  So the Holzers, attuned as they had become to Elisabeth’s presence, were surprised when she left the building on an early morning in May, wearing the threadbare coat with the vivid yellow star, the coat which now could barely reach across her large belly. Elisabeth had stayed off the streets as much as possible. Even though she was a Special Case it was better not to court trouble, she believed, and the Holzers had agreed wholeheartedly. Frau Holzer stood at the window, holding back the thin green curtain with a dryskinned hand, and watched the small lopsided figure hurry along the Fürstenburgstraße, looking right and left as though expecting to be accosted at any moment.