“I was very pleased with your letter,” Maria said, “and I would have liked to come visit you.”
Dietrich flushed with pleasure.
“Only,” she continued, “Mother didn’t think it would be appropriate. She said we haven’t known each other very long, and you are, after all, a mature man.” She turned on him a look with such a strange mixture of shyness and knowingness that he stopped walking and leaned against a wall.
“If you are in Berlin for several weeks, we can remedy our lack of acquaintance,” he said. “I would like very much to get to know you better.”
“Mother will have to be told,” Maria said.
“Of course.”
“But not at first. I’m staying at my aunt’s house in the Brandenburgische Straße. Mother doesn’t expect me to be with her every minute—in fact, she sleeps quite a lot, which is only natural. She needn’t know everything I do.”
“Maria, I don’t want to deceive your mother or take advantage—”
“I’m not talking about deceiving her,” Maria interrupted. “I’ll tell her very soon that you’ve come to call. But I want to get to know you better first. That way I can face her more easily. You know how she is. She interferes. But I’m a grown woman now and I must make my own decisions. She will come to accept that in time.”
They continued along the corridor, Dietrich thinking furiously what he should do. The daydreams he had harbored for the past few months seemed surprisingly more likely to materialize than he could have imagined. Maria’s fair skin betrayed a passionate warmth as easily as did his own, and the pressure of her fingers on his arm had been unmistakable. So. He must ask himself, did he truly wish to pursue this, especially in the face of the mother’s opposition?
They reached Frau von Wedemeyer’s room just as the food cart approached. Maria turned to him. “Come back at two o’clock,” she whispered. “She’ll certainly be resting again and we can go to lunch.”
She disappeared inside the room. From a distance he heard, “Mother, dear, it’s time to wake up and take some soup,” then Maria’s voice was drowned out by the rattling of the food cart along the long linoleum corridor.
He took her around the corner to the beer garden run by Hitler’s brother. When he pointed out the name of the proprietor painted in Bavarian letters beside the door, she laughed. “This will be something funny to write my friends. I bet the Führer would be just as glad if his brother changed his name.”
“I do believe our great leader is ashamed of his relation,” Dietrich agreed.
The day was warm, one of the last of the season, and so they ate outside at a wooden table beside a linden tree. The garden was crowded with officers, and when Dietrich on a whim flashed his own Abwehr ID, they were treated to portions of bratwurst and red cabbage which were larger than any Dietrich had seen since the beginning of the war, along with thick slices of Schwarzbrot and a square of butter. Maria looked at Dietrich curiously.
“I’m very impressed,” she said.
“Don’t be,” he answered more sharply than he meant. “Intimacy with this regime is not a reason to be impressed.”
She studied him carefully a moment, went back to her food, then looked up. “Why aren’t you a chaplain? Why aren’t you at the front?” When he didn’t answer at once she added, “Mother says you are a coward. A slacker.”
He looked down at his plate, stunned with anger and embarrassment. “Your mother is quick to judge,” he managed to say.
“She thinks she has a right. She has lost a husband, and her son is on the Russian front.”
“Max? I thought he was in France.”
“There was more need for men in the East. Max’s unit has reached the Volga. They’ve been quite successful, according to his letters, but then you can’t always tell by that, can you?”
“No,” Dietrich agreed. He did not tell her that the Abwehr had been warning Hitler of disaster threatening the Sixth Army on the Volga as Soviet forces regrouped.
Maria seemed to read his thoughts. “For the first time,” she said, “Max sounds frightened. He tries not to write anything gloomy, of course. But I know him so well.” She leaned closer. “You were a great comfort to me when Father died. I’m sure you would be a comfort to boys like Max as well. If you were a chaplain, I mean.”
“Why do you press me on this? Do you want me to go away?”
“No. But I want to admire you.”
He met her eyes. “Maria, I must be very honest with you. I cannot serve in the field. It is a matter of personal principle. This does not mean I am unpatriotic, nor does it mean that I despise the men like your father and Max who are fighting this war. It is a tradition in our country that men will fight when called upon, even if they do not believe in the cause. But sometimes a patriot chooses a different course of action. I have, for reasons of conscience, chosen to serve Germany in a manner that will not be clear to you, nor can I make it so. You will have to trust me. That is all I can say in my defense.”
She considered this. He felt a sudden rush of tenderness for her, for the way she had confronted him so forthrightly, for the way she so seriously weighed what he had told her. Only eighteen, he thought, but not immature, not by any means.
She said, “I think I am a good judge of people And I do trust you.”
He took her hand across the table. “My family will gather tomorrow night at my parents’ house for an evening of music. I would be very happy if you would accompany me. If your mother can spare you, that is.”
“Yes,” she said, and squeezed his hand in return. “I should like that very much.”
He met Maria at the hospital after her mother had taken her evening meal. He felt compelled to speak to Frau von Wedemeyer, for it went against his upbringing to escort a young woman about town without her mother’s knowledge. Frau von Wedemeyer answered him in a tremulous voice, as though she was overwhelmed by the blackness of the world in which she lay and by her inability to even turn her head toward him.
“In my day it was considered inappropriate for a single man and girl to be alone together until they were engaged,” she said to the black void.
“That was my family’s custom where my sisters were concerned,” Dietrich replied. “Though times have changed. The old ways seem very far off now.”
She longed to answer him sharply, but the slightest tensing of her muscles caused pain to shoot through her eyes to the back of her skull. She merely pressed her lips together and said, “As far as my daughter is concerned, I still decide what is appropriate and what is not.”
“Of course, Frau von Wedemeyer,” Dietrich said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I promise that my parents will be present throughout the evening, as will my sister Christel and her husband, Hans von Dohnanyi. I shall have Maria back at her aunt’s in the Brandenburgische Straße by ten-thirty, and both Dohnanyis will travel with us as chaperons. Your daughter will be very safe with my family.”
And knew he was not telling the truth, though in a very different way from what Frau von Wedemeyer imagined.
He saw Maria every day, neglected his writing to be with her whenever her mother slept. They walked in the Tiergarten just as Dietrich had dreamed, though with Paula Bonhoeffer in tow instead of a baby pram. The park had been damaged by the bombing; craters pocked the greensward, trees were snapped in two or split as though struck by lightning. A shell had fallen in the zebra compound of the zoo, killing all but one of the banded animals. Dietrich scarcely noticed. Nor did he pay much attention to the music when he escorted Maria to a performance of The Magic Flute at the Opera House. They had gone out with Hans and Christel, since Dietrich was still scrupulously trying to keep his promise to Frau von Wedemeyer. He tried to think of a way to be alone with Maria, but the closest he came was in the hospital corridor, always in view of passing nurses and attendants.
He decided he might manage a chaste kiss in her mother’s room, while Frau von Wedemeyer slept. He considered this possibility over and over.
Unless Maria herself protested, it would work, he thought. Best done when he was taking his leave. Then there would be no question of further expectations until Maria had a chance to sort out how she felt about such an advance in their relationship.
But when he arrived the next morning at the Franziskus Hospital, Frau von Wedemeyer was sitting up in bed, bandages off. Her eyes were red, the cheekbones beneath them swollen and with a bluish stain, but she could see. She greeted him with the news that she would be returning to Pätzig the next day.
“Is—is that wise?” he stammered.
“Normally it would be another week,” she said. “But new casualties are arriving from the front, soldiers with eye wounds. They’re setting up cots for the poor boys in the corridors, and I can’t bear to take up a bed under such circumstances. Besides, Pätzig is such a comfort, I’m happy to return as soon as possible. My own physician can tend me quite well there, and of course Maria will be with me.”
From a chair in the corner of the room, Maria gave him a helpless smile.
Frau von Wedemeyer said, “After all, dear, you did say Aunt Spes was beginning to wear on your nerves.”
“Yes,” Maria agreed. “She’s quite an anti-Semite, you know, Dietrich, and she blames the Jews for the war. I really weary of hearing it. And I do miss the woods at home. But you will come visit us?”
“I’m sure Pastor Bonhoeffer is quite taken over with his duties here in Berlin,” Frau von Wedemeyer answered for him, making no effort to conceal her contempt.
“But you will come when you have a chance,” Maria insisted, refusing to be intimidated.
“Of course,” Dietrich said. “When Hans can spare me.”
He saw them off at the Anhalter Bahnhof, pushing Frau von Wedemeyer in a reclining wheelchair while Maria walked beside them. Several railway attendants hoisted the chair onto a sleeping car, and Dietrich lingered on the platform, hoping Maria would hesitate as well and he could kiss her goodbye. But Frau von Wedemeyer was calling for her daughter, one hand clutching a rail to keep her chair from moving, and Maria turned only long enough to give him a fleeting peck on the cheek before climbing aboard.
ON OCTOBER 26, 1942, Max von Wedemeyer was killed in the early days of the Russian offensive that would overwhelm the German Sixth Army at Stalingrad. When his remains arrived at Pätzig, it fell to his sister Maria to escort them from the station. Likewise it was Maria who arranged the funeral service, for Frau von Wedemeyer had been so devastated by news of her son’s death that she kept to her bedroom for a fortnight. Trays of food were returned to the kitchen barely touched, and though she was usually fastidious, it was several days before Frau von Wedemeyer could summon the strength even to bathe. When a parcel of Max’s effects arrived on one of the last German trains out of Stalingrad, it was Maria who opened it.
The package contained a torn and bloodstained leather pouch. Maria fought back a wave of nausea, then opened the clasp, dumped the contents on her bed, and called for a servant to dispose of the pouch with instructions that her mother must know nothing of it. Then she turned to all that remained, the few items Max had carried on his person. There was a small Bible. A locket she recognized as a gift from his girlfriend Anna. A dog-eared pack of playing cards. A penknife. And an envelope stamped with a Berlin postmark and addressed in a familiar hand. She opened the letter, smoothed out the pages, which appeared to have been folded and unfolded many times, and read the words of comfort Pastor Bonhoeffer had written her brother on the death of their father. She read it through three times, could hear Dietrich’s voice, gentle and soothing. Then she stretched out on the bed, the letter beneath her, and cried herself to sleep.
The memorial service was delayed until Frau von Wedemeyer had gained enough strength to leave her room. Not until her mother had appeared at the dinner table, thin and silent, did Maria write Dietrich and invite him to attend. She was afraid he wouldn’t receive the letter in time, for she knew from his own letters that he traveled often between Berlin and Munich. (Though she did not know the reason—that the position of the conspirators was so precarious they no longer dared communicate except through trusted couriers like Dietrich.) When there was no word from him and the day of the memorial service approached, she forced herself to speak with her mother.
“I’m sure he’ll answer as soon as he receives my letter,” she said at the breakfast table, as Frau von Wedemeyer picked at a soft-boiled egg. “I’m sorry to be so uncertain. But of course there’s plenty of room here in the house if he is able to come, and Dietrich isn’t a demanding houseguest. It would mean a great deal to me if he could say a few words at the service.”
“I don’t want him,” Frau von Wedemeyer said without looking up.
Maria stared at her. “But—well, if you don’t want him to speak, I still—”
“I don’t want him under this roof,” her mother interrupted. “I won’t have it. Not when Max—” She broke off, then stood abruptly and left the table.
The rest of the day Maria busied herself with household chores. She finished in her father’s study, sitting in his old leather chair close to a west window, where she mended stockings in the waning afternoon light.
Frau von Wedemeyer appeared, a shadow in the doorway. “You have already written to invite Pastor Bonhoeffer,” she said.
“Yes,” Maria answered with relief, assuming her mother had bowed to the inevitable.
“I thought I understood as much. I’ve just sent Fritz to post a telegram to Pastor Bonhoeffer withdrawing the invitation. I’m sorry if this is awkward for you, but next time you shall consult me before inviting people to my home.”
Frau von Wedemeyer left the study and climbed the back staircase. Maria could hear the floorboards creak along the upstairs hall to her mother’s room.
Maria wrote at once to apologize for her mother and declare her own innocence in the matter, and Dietrich, his initial hurt assuaged, responded with relief. Frau von Wedemeyer could do nothing about their continuing correspondence, indeed knew little of it, for Maria daily walked the two miles and back to pick up the mail and post her own letters. Dietrich had grown more bold, proclaimed his affection more plainly, the words coming easily because they were addressed to the unseen Maria of memory. In one of his letters he enclosed a snapshot. It was several years old, taken before the war. He was leaning back in the front seat of a Mercedes, striking a carefree pose, smiling broadly and looking much younger than he at present felt. Maria wrote her own letters to this dashing Dietrich. She imagined him in just such a car, driving through the night to a clandestine meeting in Munich whose purpose remained for her cloaked in shadow. Never mind. Whatever he was about, it must be good and right.
A few weeks after Max’s memorial service, Dietrich wrote
My dearest Maria,
I can no longer hold back but must tell you all. I love you above anyone. More than this, I want to marry you. Of course, it would be best to ask you in person, but as we are kept apart, that is impossible. I must have your answer, and if it is what I hope, I shall arrange to come speak with your mother at once.
Yours always,
Dietrich
Maria read the letter once and hid it away inside her desk drawer. She was too shaken to look at it again for several days. When at last she retrieved it she carried it downstairs and dropped it on the table in front of her mother as though it burned her hand. Frau von Wedemeyer looked at the envelope, then at her daughter. She took her reading glasses from the pocket of her skirt, opened them carefully, and read the letter. When she was done she looked away without a word. Maria burst into tears and ran from the room.
They didn’t speak of the proposal until after supper, when a fire had been lit in the sitting-room hearth and the family dogs brought in for the night.
“I suppose,” Frau von Wedemeyer said, “you have taken great pleasure in defying me.”
Maria began to cry again. “You are so unfair! To both of us! Papa loved him! He did!”
“Your father was fond of Pastor Bonhoeffer. But after all, he didn’t know him that well. Really, they had little in common.”
“It’s not true. He tells me something about Papa in every letter. Every one.”
“He is old enough to be your father.”
“I don’t care. He’s ever so much wiser than the boys my age, ever so much wiser.”
“My dear child, with the war, you’ve hardly had a chance to know any boys your age, except for your cousins.”
“I don’t care,” Maria repeated. “If you refuse us, you will make me miserable for the rest of my life.” She stood up as though to leave the room.
“So,” her mother said, “you will go about weeping and accusing me because you believe I am treating you unfairly. Is this what I shall have to endure, on top of losing your father and brother?”
“You aren’t the only one who lost them!” Maria cried.
Frau von Wedemeyer said nothing, and once more Maria turned to leave. Behind her, her mother said, “Very well, write Pastor Bonhoeffer. Tell him I wish him to come to Pätzig so I may speak with him.” And when she saw the joy spread across her daughter’s face, she said, “It may not be all that you hope for.”
“You will refuse us?”
“I shall propose a compromise. But that, Maria, is not where the disappointment may lie.”
She would later remember the shock of that winter meeting after weeks of separation. That afternoon she stood on the platform and greeted the man who emerged from the Stettin train, the sturdy, solemn man—older than her dream Dietrich—who kissed her cheek under her mother’s watchful gaze. She could scarcely look at him, found it hard to keep her mind on the conversation as they walked back to Pätzig. He gave her a small package, after assuring Frau von Wedemeyer that it was not an engagement ring. Maria felt as though someone else fumbled with the wrapping, exclaimed with gratitude at the necklace which had belonged to Paula Bonhoeffer’s mother. Someone else listened calmly, almost gratefully, as her mother agreed to a marriage only on condition that Dietrich and Maria see nothing of each other for a year before becoming engaged, so that Maria might “settle down.” Someone else attempted to whisper words of comfort to a disappointed Pastor Bonhoeffer.
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