Maria
August–November 1942
AFTER DIETRICH BONHOEFFER’S CLANDESTINE TRIP to Sweden he began to daydream about children. Not just any children but his own. Though they of course did not exist. Perhaps it was because of the news sent through diplomatic post that Elisabeth Fliess had given birth to a daughter. Dietrich thought of Hermann Fliess, who did not know he was a father, who might know nothing more of this world. Meanwhile Dietrich loved the child even without having met her, but she was not his. He thought of Hermann Fliess and himself as half-men, each possessing what the other lacked.
Thus the dreams of children. Waking, he longed for children. Not children with Elisabeth, for alive or dead Hermann Fliess stood foursquare between them. Dietrich could not explain this; he would not attempt it. Elisabeth must go to England to be with her father, as should be. And Dietrich must move on. That was all.
In the late summer of 1942, in North Africa, Rommel launched an offensive. In the east, the Wehrmacht captured the Maikop oil field from Soviet troops and pushed on to the Volga. But it was another period of quiet for Dietrich. After the clandestine trip to Sweden, Oster and Dohnanyi thought it wise for him to “disappear for a time,” as they put it. Not to hide, but to go back to the countryside to write his Ethics and not call attention to himself. It had become increasingly obvious to the resisters inside the Abwehr that they were being watched more closely. The SS and Gestapo were regular visitors to the Tirpitz-Ufer. It was not unusual to bump into a black-uniformed officer in a hall or walk past the open office door of an Abwehr hard-liner and glimpse an SS officer reared back in a chair smoking a cigarette and chatting amiably. Dohnanyi waited nervously for word from England. When the telegram from Bell arrived, he became ill with disappointment, could not keep down food for two days. But what could one expect? The British had every right to be cautious. They would not believe in the resistance until a dead body had been produced. Very well then. The plotters would try to deliver, even though the increased surveillance had everyone on edge. At least the mysterious letter Dietrich carried to Sweden had received a positive response.
Dietrich knew that his mission had failed, that the SS was closing in. He would have expected this knowledge to crowd out thoughts of family, of children, but instead his longing grew more intense. It was difficult to concentrate on his writing, despite the pleasant surroundings. He had once more been remanded to the care of the Prussian gentry. Not to Pätzig this time. He had pleaded with Dohnanyi, explained how he and Frau von Wedemeyer had parted on such unhappy terms. So he was sent instead to Klein-Krössin, a larger, more prosperous estate owned by the von Kleists, relatives of the von Wedemeyers and distant kin of Dietrich’s mother. Unlike the von Wedemeyer family, the von Kleists were members of the resistance, and while Frau von Kleist did not know the details of Dietrich’s work, she did not judge him for lacking a uniform.
Dietrich had special cause to appreciate the new arrangement when word came that von Wedemeyer, a cavalry officer serving in the Ukraine, had been killed in action. His commanding officer wrote the grieving widow that Rittmeister von Wedemeyer had died valiantly after being struck by a shell. He had been buried in the Ukraine. Dietrich, reflecting on the damage that could be done by an exploding shell, wondered if there had been much to bury.
In the absence of a body, a memorial service was held in the little church at Pätzig. Dietrich walked over through the woods from Klein-Krössin. Although he was one of the few clergymen in the region, he had not been asked to help with the memorial service. Instead he sat near the back of the church while a retired pastor from Stettin delivered the eulogy.
He dreaded to meet Frau von Wedemeyer. And she treated him as coldly as he had expected, though she was, of course, polite. A Prussian lady would always be polite. When he passed through the receiving line after the service, she offered him her hand—which he bowed over and pressed in sympathy without receiving any response—and turned a dry cheek to him to be kissed. She did not meet his eyes, but directed his attention to the young woman standing beside her.
“You will recall my daughter, Maria,” she said. “Maria, this is Pastor Bonhoeffer, who lived nearby before the war. Remember he confirmed you and your brother.”
Maria. She had been thirteen when last he saw her and in his memory remained thirteen. But this was no child, he realized with a shock that ran from the tip of his toes to his scalp. She was now eighteen, a pretty, full-figured girl with light brown hair and a delicate complexion. Her tears deepened the blue of her eyes. She took his hand automatically, tried to smile politely but failed and bowed her head. He held her hand tightly.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I recall how close you were to your father. I especially loved to watch the two of you at games.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Papa loved games.”
“I’m afraid he always spoiled Maria,” Frau von Wedemeyer broke in. Then she turned pointedly away and greeted the next visitor.
Dietrich thought it an incredibly cruel remark at such a time. Maria raised her eyes and met his. “He loved me better than anyone,” she said fiercely.
“He did,” Dietrich agreed. He realized with a start that he was still clutching the girl’s hand. He tried to let go but she was holding on just as tightly.
“He liked you,” she said. “Papa liked you very much. I remember. He used to say you were one of the few clergymen he could talk to like a normal person.”
Dietrich winced inwardly but said, “I also liked him. He was a good man.”
“Thank you,” she said. He was being forced along, as Frau von Wedemeyer had finished with the guest behind him. The handclasp was broken. But as he moved away Maria called after him, “I should like to talk with you again. About Papa. Will you call?”
“Of course,” he said. “I can come over next week if you like, after you’ve had time to rest.”
“Oh, sooner. I don’t need rest so much as comfort.”
Because of the distance they had to raise their voices. Dietrich supposed Frau von Wedemeyer had heard this exchange and would disapprove. Too bad, he thought. He wandered away to a table of refreshments set beneath a grove of trees and pretended to be occupied with his teacup and plate of cakes. But he could not keep his eyes off Maria. He saw all his own sisters in her. The flaxen hair and clear complexion of Christel, the high spirits of Suse evident despite her grief, the full figure of Sabine. He imagined taking her in his arms, taking her into his bed. At this he blushed and tried to distract himself, sipped his tea, then squinted at a squirrel on a branch above his head. Then back at Maria. A wisp of hair had escaped the clip above her ear and straggled against her cheek. He longed to brush it back. As if reading his thoughts, her hand went to the stray lock and pushed it behind her ear. She turned her head, caught him watching her. He looked quickly away. When he raised the teacup to his lips, his hand was trembling.
Because of the loss of her beloved father, because she could not avoid imagining what had happened to him, how the shell had torn him apart, how what was left of him had been tossed into a muddy pit and hastily covered over, because of all this, Maria did not at first guess the nature of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s interest in her. He was a pastor concerned for a daughter mourning a father. Her state of mind was much too fragile, the pain of loss too fresh, to consider anything else. The desperate clinging to his hand, the desire to throw herself in his arms and be comforted, she simply accepted. If her brother Max had been killed, her father would have been there to hold her tight while she wept. But with Papa himself dead—There had been no one else she wanted to hurl herself at and beat upon the chest, certainly not her mother (as likely throw oneself upon an ironing board), no one she longed for until the tall, rather stocky Pastor Bonhoeffer appeared. Only Pastor Bonhoeffer was the same size as Papa.
Of course, she could not actually throw herself upon him in the garden at Pätzig, where he sat two days after the memorial service and allowed her to pour him a cup of camomi
le tea.
“It’s beastly stuff,” she complained, eyeing the yellow liquid in the cup, “I should like to serve you Darjeeling, but with the war—” And the thought of the war brought Papa to mind, and her eyes filled with tears.
Dietrich offered his handkerchief and took one of her hands in his own, even though he was sure Frau von Wedemeyer watched from some window of the house. He said little, for he had begun to feel that words, however eloquent, were mere foolishness in the face of great sorrow. At last Maria composed herself and said, “Mother says that Papa is in Heaven. But I don’t know what I think about Heaven. I believe Papa still exists, that he is here right now. He’s glad I’m sitting here with you, as if he’s whispering it in my ear. Do you think that’s silly?”
“Of course not,” Dietrich said. “And while I can never be as special to you as your father was, I should like very much to be your good friend. If you’ll allow me.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I need a good friend ever so much.”
A maid arrived with two plates, each holding a slice of poppyseed cake. Of course Frau von Wedemeyer would not send out the entire cake, Dietrich thought. A clear message—or was he overly sensitive?—eat this bit, then be gone. He obliged, lingering only a little over the crumbs before making his way back through the woods to Klein-Krössin. But first Maria walked to the edge of the trees with him, just out of view of the house, and promised that they would soon ask him to dinner. Then just as he was about to take his leave she flung her arms around his neck, held on for a few seconds as though drowning, and just as abruptly let go and ran away. The dinner invitation never materialized, and two weeks later, a telegram arrived from Hans von Dohnanyi recalling Dietrich to Berlin. He packed his bags and left Pomerania once and for all, with no idea of ever seeing Maria von Wedemeyer again. But waking or sleeping, staring out the window of a train or sitting up late with his fellow conspirators smoking cigarette after cigarette, the girl appeared to him. He saw the two of them married, strolling arm in arm through the Tiergarten or the woods at Pätzig. Pushing a baby’s pram. Making love. That above all. In his mind’s eye Maria was naked and he explored every part of her.
He accompanied Dohnanyi to Rome for consultations with the Vatican. While his brother-in-law huddled with Fathers Leiber and Schönhöfer over the report they would give the next day to the Pope, Dietrich could not keep his mind from conjuring the phantom Maria, who drew him into bed and wrapped her legs around his waist. He sat hunched on his chair, his body turned away from Dohnanyi and the priests, fighting an erection.
On the return trip he shared his feelings with Dohnanyi, stammering and blushing like a schoolboy, seeking relief rather than advice. Dohnanyi listened without interrupting while Dietrich babbled on—“Perhaps it’s because of our situation. I’m sure danger is an aphrodisiac. One is frightened of death and what better way to assure one is alive than to fall in love. If it is love. Probably only lust. She’s very young, isn’t she? Eighteen to my thirty-seven. Good God, I must be mad. I mean, I’m not thinking clearly. Am I?”
Dohnanyi said, “It’s natural. You’re a healthy, normal man and you’ve met a pretty girl. Why shouldn’t you be attracted to her?”
“At such a time,” Dietrich continued distractedly. “Such an awful time.”
“All the more reason. Who among us doesn’t yearn for love, and especially in times like these?”
Their train was crossing the Brenner Pass, climbing laboriously up and around hairpin turns past artillery placements set against raw cuts in the mountainsides.
“We’ll be back across the border soon,” Dietrich said, thinking he was changing the subject. But he came back to Maria. “It would be criminal for a man in my situation to take a wife now.”
“Do you think it’s better for a man to be without attachments?” Dohnanyi said. “I don’t agree. Perhaps it would be easier for Christel and the children if they didn’t know me. But I wouldn’t want to have missed our life together all these years. That is where I get my strength. And if the worst comes, their love will be what helps me face it. You could do far worse just now, brother-in-law, than fall in love.”
Dietrich felt a surge of hope. “You think so? Then what should I do? I’m such an idiot when it comes to such things.”
Dohnanyi laughed. “It’s not as though you’ve never been with a woman.”
“Yes, but with Elisabeth, it seemed we were thrown together as friends and then just fell into a relationship. Ultimately I was no good at it. And this is different. I would have to court this girl. She would expect it, wouldn’t she? She’s so young, and she knows nothing of me. And such a pretty girl must have admirers her own age, young men in the army perhaps, who will seem very heroic to her. How could I compete with that?”
“She’s been away at boarding school,” Dohnanyi pointed out. “And I’d guess her mother keeps a close eye on her. She’s probably been very sheltered.”
“That’s true, but it may do me more harm than good. Her mother detests me.”
The conversation continued sporadically throughout the trip. Dietrich feared Hans would be bored but, except for an obvious bemusement, he seemed to enjoy Dietrich’s predicament. As if he had been taken away from the war and the plot and dropped into the world of schoolyard gossip where boys shared smokes and swapped stories of real and imagined conquests. After the conductor entered to pull down their sleeping berths they continued to talk, lying on their backs and blowing smoke at the ceiling, savoring the cigarettes hot in their mouths as the tip of a woman’s tongue.
He nursed his desire for Maria through other journeys—to Switzerland, where he oversaw the safe arrival of the remaining Jews of Operation 7, to Munich, where Josef Müller was arranging the illegal transfer of currency to support the refugees in their new Swiss homes. In September he gathered up his courage and wrote a letter, composing four drafts before sending it off, striving for just the right blend of affection and distance, and finally deciding to err on the side of caution. Dear Maria, Amid all the dreariness and sorrow of this war, I have continued to treasure the memory of our meeting at Pätzig, even as I mourn the circumstances. I think of you often and wonder how you are bearing up to the burden of your father’s death. It is often in the weeks after such a loss, when friends have gone on about other business, that sorrow is most difficult to face. Please know if you ever need a friend to confide in, I am here.
I recall some details of our conversation apart from the talk of your loss. You told me that you long to study mathematics at university when the war is over, and that your mother laughs at such an ambition as a silly whim, a course of action not suitable for a young woman. I happen to think it is admirable that you should want to pursue such a difficult subject, and I encourage you to continue with your plans. The war will not go on forever, and we all need something to hope for. As for the field’s unsuitability, I don’t see why a fine mind should be wasted whether it is possessed by a woman or a man. Certainly there is no question of any sort of work marring the feminine charms which you possess in such abundance….
He read this draft over and over, aware that except for the last sentence it might be a missive from a fond uncle. And yet after mailing the letter, he turned away from the postal box certain that this single sentence had completed the final act of a short-lived infatuation. She would laugh at him, perhaps show the letter to her younger sisters at night, reading his parting words aloud to the accompaniment of girlish giggles. Or even worse, she would write to a lover at the front about the balding old man who had sent her such a ridiculous letter.
Her response arrived ten days later, a short polite note thanking him for his concern, his offer of friendship, and the list of Bible verses he had so thoughtfully included for her comfort in dealing with her recent bereavement. Her mother had, of course, read his letter as well, and had helped compose this response. The note was signed With kind regards, your young friend, Maria.
At the bottom of the page, a hasty scraw
l had been added. Mother will have surgery on her eyes at the Franziskus Hospital in October. Shall I see you?
Frau von Wedemeyer lay on her back in the white iron hospital bed. Two sandbags, long and slender like pillowcased sausages, were packed tight against the sides of her head. Her eyes were swathed with bandages and her thin hands splayed limply across her chest.
Maria put a finger to her lips. “Shh. She’s been asleep for over an hour. Or at least she doesn’t answer when I speak softly to her.”
She took Dietrich by the arm and led him into the corridor. He glanced back into the room and said, “I would have brought her flowers from my mother’s garden, but this last cold spell has taken them all.”
“She couldn’t see them anyway,” Maria said. “The doctor says the bandages won’t come off for a week. And she isn’t allowed to move her head because the stitches are so delicate.”
“What is it? Cataracts?”
“Yes. She’d had more and more trouble reading, but she kept putting off doing anything about it. Since Father’s death, she has missed more than ever being able to read, so she decided on the surgery at last.”
“Would you like to go out for a walk?”
“I can’t just now. They’ll be bringing the midday meal in fifteen minutes and I’ll have to help her eat.”
“Perhaps we could stroll the corridor?”
Maria smiled and took Dietrich’s arm. They went along past ranks of doors. The hospital was built like a large square around an open courtyard, and they could make a circuit, pausing at each corner before a high window that overlooked a garden turning brown in the autumn sun. Some of the windowpanes were missing, casualties of the ever more frequent bombing raids.
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