Dietrich did not know what to say.
“You will go back?” Elisabeth said after a time.
He nodded. “I must.” Though he could not admit that he had not yet summoned up the courage to return to Germany. Each time was harder than the last.
In the end, George Bell, without knowing it, gave him the resolve he needed. Dietrich and Elisabeth had gone on to Geneva, where it was agreed she would stay with Visser’t Hooft and his wife until her baby was born. Then she would work with refugees, and if possible join her father in England. Visser’t Hooft met their train, took them to lunch, and over plates of rosti, almost as an afterthought, pulled a crumpled telegram from his pocket and handed it to Dietrich.
“From George,” said Visser’t Hooft. “He’s in Sweden. Been there a week and will be there two more.”
“Whatever is he doing in Sweden?” Dietrich asked.
“Some sort of cultural exchange between the British and the Swedes. The poet T. S. Eliot is with him.”
“Eliot!”
“You know him?”
Dietrich smiled. “We’ve met.”
“Why don’t you find some excuse to go to Sweden?” Elisabeth said. “It would be lovely for you to see George again after all these years.”
“Of course,” Dietrich said and laughed. “Wartime enemies meeting in a neutral country. Wouldn’t the SS love that!”
“You’re meeting me now,” Visser’t Hooft pointed out.
“That’s different. We aren’t at war with Holland, we’ve conquered it. You’re one of ours now, in their eyes, and besides, I’m supposed to be spying on you, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” Visser’t Hooft said.
“You could spy on George,” Elisabeth offered.
“Yes, I could spy on good old George. I could—”
Dietrich stopped, and a shadow passed over his face.
“What?” Elisabeth asked.
Dietrich shook his head distractedly. He looked around, glanced at his watch, put his hand to his mouth. Elisabeth glanced at Visser’t Hooft, who was watching Dietrich closely.
“Dietrich,” Elisabeth coaxed.
He seemed to recall where he was, sat up straight. “I’ve got to go back to Germany,” he said, “on the first available train.”
“Just like that?” said Visser’t Hooft.
“Yes. I can’t say any more.”
Elisabeth was staring at her plate.
“Of course I must go back,” he said.
“But not so soon,” she whispered. “I thought you might stay for the birth of the child.”
“Not possible in any case,” Dietrich said, and realized guiltily he would be relieved not to be present when the baby was born. He still loved Elisabeth and longed to be away from her once and for all.
“Well,” said Visser’t Hooft, “we’d best get you to the train station,” and he called for the bill.
There had followed the overnight trip to Berlin, and after a hurried consultation at Abwehr headquarters, Dietrich was in his room in the Marienburger Allee packing a suitcase. Hans von Dohnanyi appeared in the door and held out a sealed envelope.
“Last-minute decision. Will you give this to Bishop Bell to post when he returns to England?”
Dietrich took the envelope from Hans. It was blank. “Memorize this,” Dohnanyi said. “When you meet the bishop, address this to E. P. Harrison, 45 Whyke Lane, Chichester. Not before. That address in the possession of a German would call attention.”
“What on earth?”
“Better if you don’t know,” Dohnanyi said.
For the first time in his Abwehr career he had to make use of the subterfuge of spies familiar to reader and cinema-goers—the constant awareness of whether one was being followed and the precautions of misdirection that would cover one’s trail. Except for an hour’s hurried conversation with Oster he had had no “training” for espionage. He would simply rely on his own common sense, and if his activities were noticed by German agents in Sweden, he would produce an excuse that his mission had been undertaken to confuse the British. He carried in his jacket Special Courier Pass No. 474 from the Foreign Office, which declared he was engaged on important business on behalf of the German Reich and must be protected from interference at all cost.
He arrived in Sassnitz four hours before the ferry was scheduled to depart and took advantage of the delay to play the foggy-headed academic on his way to deliver a theological paper in Stockholm. (The paper was an old one on Christology hastily dug out of a desk drawer.) This was his answer to polite inquiries from others waiting to make the crossing. It was also a good excuse to take a walk through the beech forest toward the cliffs of the Stubbenkammer. This was what academics did—they communed with nature in an addle-brained sort of way while all the world warred and burned around them. He walked, head down, and tried not to think of his final parting with Elisabeth, of her face, filled with love and concern, as she stood beside Visser’t Hooft and his wife. Dietrich had watched her out of sight when the train pulled out of the station. Only then had he turned away his face and wept.
After Berlin, Stockholm was as lovely and well provisioned as any fairy city, its weather as clear and mild, its inhabitants as well disposed. Again Dietrich wondered where he would find the strength to return home. Home, he repeated to himself to ward off fear. Home home home home.
He found the hotel in the Riddargatan where Bell’s telegram to Visser’t Hooft had been posted, but learned the bishop and Eliot had checked out two days earlier.
“Where have they gone?” Dietrich asked the desk clerk, a thin bored young man who in Germany would have been at the front.
“They left no forwarding address,” said the clerk. They were speaking in English, since Dietrich knew no Swedish.
“But they are still in Sweden?”
“I believe it was their plan to remain in the country for a time, yes.”
Dietrich chewed his lip, thinking hard. Then he asked where he would find the offices of the Swedish state church and was soon back in a taxi, glancing warily out the rear window for signs of pursuit.
SIGTUNA, SWEDEN. JUNE 1, 1942. T. S. Eliot, fresh from a triumphant reading of his poems at the ancient university in Uppsala, was scheduled to repeat the performance at the Nordic Ecumenical Institute in Sigtuna. The institute was entirely too Protestant for Eliot’s taste—indeed, the same could be said for the whole of Sweden. But the audiences so far had been large and enthusiastic—word had it that once the war was over Eliot would be in line for the Nobel in literature, and everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of him. Eliot heard the gossip and was keenly aware the committee which picked the prizewinner was based in Stockholm. He was at his best.
But being at his best took a great deal out of him, and he spent the afternoon napping in his room in the wood-frame guesthouse of the institute. He would rather have been walking along the shore of the Skarven, contemplating this venerable seat of Scandinavian royalty, as he would have done if he had more energy. But there it was, he was not so young as he used to be.
At half past three he woke, slapped cold water from an enamel basin in his face, and went in search of the good Bishop Bell, who was taking his own nap. Bell would be sharing theological reflections on the poems as his contribution to the evening’s event. But just as Eliot stepped into the hall there was a sharp rapping at the front door. He waited to see if a servant was about, and when none appeared, went to answer the door himself. Outside Dietrich Bonhoeffer stood stiffly clutching a briefcase. Eliot stared in astonishment.
“Hello, Tom,” Dietrich said. He was relieved rather than startled, for he knew Eliot was traveling with Bell.
“My God!” Eliot exclaimed, recovering his voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Official Reich business. I can’t explain. But I must see George.” Dietrich was keenly aware of Eliot’s reaction—the sudden chilly set to his features, the surprise turning to cautious distaste, even contempt. Dietrich tri
ed to pretend he didn’t notice. “May I come in?”
“Jawohl, mein Herr,” Eliot said, and clicked his heels. Then he stood back and Dietrich stepped inside.
At that moment George Bell appeared in purple bishop’s shirt, fidgeting with the clerical collar dangling loosely around his neck and saying, “Tom, who is it? Did I hear—” and stopped when he saw Dietrich.
“George!” Dietrich cried. “Oh, George, thank God!”
“I’ve been taking a nap,” Bell said slowly. “Can it be I’m still dreaming?”
“No dream,” Dietrich said. “I can’t say how glad I am to have found you.”
Eliot stood watching them with his arms folded across his thin chest. “Our friend is here on official business for the German Reich,” he said pointedly.
“Ah,” Bell said. “You aren’t here, Dietrich, because you’ve escaped and want asylum?”
“No,” Dietrich said. “I can only stay a few hours. I must return to Stockholm this evening and take the night train back to Trelleborg.”
Bell studied Dietrich a moment, then held out his hand, which Dietrich grasped as though he were being swept out by a tide and Bell were the life-line.
“My room is at the end of the hall,” Bell said. “We can talk there. I’m sure Tom will excuse us, won’t you, Tom?”
Eliot looked suspicious but said, “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” He watched them go slowly along the hall, the bishop steady and deliberate, Bonhoeffer, still clutching the briefcase, seeming to totter back and forth as though carrying an iron weight. Then they went into Bell’s room and closed the door.
“What are you doing in Sweden?” Dietrich asked.
Bell laughed. “I’m the one who’s supposed to ask that question. Tom Eliot and I are over here putting on a dog and pony show. Don’t tell him I said that. We’re supposed to show the Swedes that British culture is alive and kicking despite the war. Anyway, what a joy to see you, my boy, after these terrible years of separation, but whatever are you doing here?”
“Do you trust me still? Tom obviously doesn’t. Neither did anyone in the Swedish archbishop’s office. At first they wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
“I would trust you with my life,” Bell replied.
“Then I hope to keep that trust,” Dietrich said. “My credentials are from the Foreign Office, but my mission is on behalf of elements in Germany who are planning the overthrow of the Nazi regime.”
Bell nodded without surprise. He looked around the plain room, then pulled a pair of hand-carved wood chairs to the window. The two men sat close together and turned their faces toward the late-afternoon sun.
Dietrich asked, “Do you recall whom Dante consigns to the deepest circle of his Hell?”
“Those who betray their country,” Bell said.
Dietrich sighed as though relinquishing his last breath. “That is why I am here.”
Bell reached over and placed his hand on Dietrich’s arm. He waited, knowing Dietrich must talk awhile.
“All my life I have listened to the teaching of Luther,” Dietrich continued. “The state is ordained by God and therefore is sacred and must be obeyed. Loyalty to one’s own country comes before anything else. But I no longer believe this. Germans, Americans, English, Italians, Russians, all believe it and all are wrong. The nations have become idols, and I will not worship them. I have brothers and sisters everywhere on earth. I have another country.”
“The kingdom of God,” Bell said. “Remember Isaiah. All the nations are as nothing before God. They are accounted by Him as less than nothing.”
“Yes,” Dietrich said. “Tell me, George, do you believe that too?”
“I believe it,” Bell said. “I love Great Britain, but God comes first.”
“And so I have come to you. We are going to kill Hitler.”
“I guessed as much.”
“There have been setbacks. The German military successes were devastating to us. But now—things move forward again.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“I have told my fellow conspirators in the Abwehr that you have the ear of top British officials.”
Bell blanched and looked away. He thought, with a stab of fear, Despite Dietrich’s time in England, he does not understand how things work there. “Perhaps not so—”
“I visited you in your club, the Athenaeum. I saw who dined there. And now you sit in the House of Lords.”
“Dietrich, the House of Lords is not so powerful as some might think.”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury. You are close to him. And you will yourself be archbishop someday soon. Everyone said it when I was in London.”
“The archbishop is listened to, of course, but when it comes to military policy—well, it’s quite a bit different from having the ear of Churchill and—”
“Eden,” Dietrich said. “That is who we would like you to approach.”
“Anthony Eden?”
“He is the foreign secretary and he is a member of the Athenaeum, so you could easily speak with him.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’ll listen to me.”
“I have names!” Dietrich broke in desperately. “I have told my brother-in-law and Oster and the others that you have influence, that you will speak with Anthony Eden, and they have given me names. A death list, these names, if the Gestapo gets hold of them. These are the men who will govern Germany once Hitler is removed. And they need help from the British government. Only this—”
“Dietrich!” Bell tightened his grip on Dietrich’s arm. “I will do what I can. But I do not sit at the right hand of the prime minister. Do you understand?”
Dietrich sat back his chair. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. But you can get to Eden?”
George Bell took stock of the situation.
“I promise,” he said, raising his hand. “I can get to Eden. Whether he will listen is another matter.”
“It is all we can ask. Here is what you tell him. You must write this down and then keep it safe.”
Bell took out his notebook and fountain pen and wrote quickly as Dietrich spelled out the names. Generals Beck and von Tresckow and Hammerstein and their allies in the Army. Goerdeler, the conservative mayor of Leipzig. Leuschner, the socialist trade union leader who had survived a stint in Dachau, and Kaiser, of the Catholic Trade Unions. Schacht, Nazi minister of economics and head of the State Bank, who had secretly turned against Hitler at the start of the war.
“These are the men who will form the backbone of a new government. It is also possible, even though few of the resisters are monarchists in principle, that the monarchy will be restored to lend legitimacy to our efforts. Louis Ferdinand, the grandson of the old Kaiser, is a commendably open-minded young man, and very popular in the country. His presence would do much to undermine the efforts of any Nazi who might seek to succeed Hitler. But we are under no illusion that an overthrow will be welcomed with open arms. Most Germans support the government and the war effort. Because of this it could make a great difference if we receive certain assurances from the British. From a distance it will not for a time be clear to the rest of the world what is happening in Germany. There will be chaos. Even worse, the new government won’t be able to make known its friendly intentions toward the Allies until the situation is secured. You must make this clear to Eden.”
Bell nodded, absorbed in writing.
“We would also like to ask that if possible there might be a pause in the fighting. The Wehrmacht will be much easier to control if the Allies are not taking advantage of the situation.”
Bell looked up. “That will be tricky.”
“I know. But you must ask. If the German people feel the life of the nation is at stake they will support Hitler whatever he has done. That is a sad fact.” Dietrich took a deep breath. “There is one other complication. Even within the resistance there are those who supported Hitler’s aggression in the East. They believe Poland and the Sudetenland and Austria are righ
tfully German and should remain in German hands, even though they believe we must get rid of Hitler. Many of us in the resistance find this attitude repugnant. And you know my views. We Germans must repent our many sins and be punished for what we have inflicted upon humanity. But all this must be sorted out later, after Hitler and the Nazis have been destroyed. Until that happens, nothing else matters.”
Dietrich fell silent and watched Bell’s pen scratch the notebook page. When he was done, Bell went back over his notes with Dietrich to make sure they were accurate.
“When do you return to England?” Dietrich asked.
“In a week. Is that soon enough?”
“It will have to be.” Dietrich hesitated, then opened his briefcase and thrust his fingers into a small, nearly invisible slit in the edge of the lining. He drew out the blank envelope, addressed it, and handed it to Bell.
“Who is this?” Bell asked.
“I don’t know,” Dietrich replied. “Hans asks that you post it when you return. Only first I must tell you. To do so will directly involve you in our activities. For better and for worse. Whatever the result, even the loss of life, you will be at least indirectly responsible. So. If you refuse to post this, we shall both of us understand.”
“Do you know what is in it?”
“No,” Dietrich said. “Hans would not tell me.”
Bell held the envelope for a long time, his eyes shut as though he prayed. Dietrich thought he would refuse. Then Bell took a deep breath and said softly, “Into Thy hands, O Lord.” He slipped the envelope into the notebook, which he hid in his suitcase beneath a pile of underclothes.
They talked together awhile longer, first about Chichester, which had so far been spared serious bomb damage. “We’re a bit too sleepy for the Luftwaffe, I expect. Thank God. We’ve got quite a few youngsters from London sheltering in the area. And it would break Hettie’s heart, and mine, if we lost the cathedral as they did in Coventry.”
Dietrich told Bell about Elisabeth.
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