Once, on a particularly exhausting day, she ran into another doctoral student grabbing a quick lunch at a cheap café within a short sprint of the Sociology Department. When she paused between gulps of coffee to bemoan the impossibility of putting together two consecutive hours to work on her dissertation, he nodded knowingly. “This is what we get for choosing such professors,” he remarked. “Next time we’ll know better than to consent to work for Jews, won’t we?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Greta, recoiling. She had become very fond of Dr. Mannheim and it irked her to hear him insulted, especially with the sort of cheap, nasty antisemitic slur that required no truth to sustain it or any particular wit to speak it.
“Surely you do,” the student protested, grinning. “You know what Jews are like.”
“Which Jews do you mean?” Greta shot back. “All of them? Surely not. No serious aspiring sociologist would be so unscientific as to imagine he could describe millions of people who happen to share the same religion with a handful of convenient adjectives and ludicrous stereotypes.”
“You don’t understand. All I meant—”
“The Jews I know are hardworking people, brilliant scholars, generous friends—and, granted, some of them are less so, but even the worst of those would be better company than you.” She gathered up her plate and cup and books and moved to another table.
He never spoke to her again and avoided her gaze if they passed in the halls, but Greta did not miss him. Scapegoating Jews—or Communists, Poles, women, immigrants—was the refuge of the lazy, envious, and unimaginative. It made the world an ugly, hostile place to live in and did nothing to solve any actual problems. She would rather be solitary than count bigots among her friends.
Fortunately, she met many more congenial students in the department, and several soon became good friends. She also organized a graduate student study group, in part because studying with companions always helped motivate her, but also because she longed to replicate the camaraderie of the Friday Niters. The group was quite small at first, just Greta and a few amiable classmates she had invited out for coffee one afternoon, but when they decided to expand, flyers she posted throughout the department drew a crowd nearly four times as large. It was impossible to choose one day and time that worked well for so many students, so Greta decided to schedule their meetings on different weekdays and at varying hours, so that members could attend whenever they were available. They varied their meeting sites too, but they always chose cafés and common rooms on Zeppelinallee, just west of campus. Since they flew from one important topic to another as often as they changed meeting times and locations, Greta called the seminar their Fliegergruppe, in an amusing nod to their habits as well as their favorite street.
On other occasions, usually late at night after she dragged herself wearily from Dr. Mannheim’s office, shoulders aching from carrying heavy tomes and reaching overhead to sort them on high shelves, Greta would meet up with students from other departments, friends who shared her interest in politics and her loathing for fascism. Throughout that tense autumn, they could not tune out the cacophony of campaigning as Nazis and Communists fought to win over voters from other parties before the upcoming elections. In the previous round of voting in July, while Greta had been in Zurich contemplating her future, neither Hindenburg nor Hitler had gained enough seats in the Reichstag to have a ruling majority, so another round of elections had been scheduled for early November. Most of Greta’s new friends argued that the Social Democrats had governed the country into near ruin, but all agreed that the National Socialists had no real solutions, only outrage, vague promises to make Germany great again, and loud voices.
A few days before the German people cast their ballots, the voters of the United States would choose their next president. This election too Greta followed with great interest. She knew that with the Great Depression grinding on and unemployment soaring over 20 percent, President Herbert Hoover would have a hard time convincing anyone that he deserved four more years. She favored his Democratic challenger, New York governor Franklin D. Roosevelt. Roosevelt’s proposed New Deal, with its progressive policies to help the impoverished and revive the economy, could very well save that country, while Hoover offered nothing but prolonged stagnation.
Wednesday, November 2, was already well under way in Berlin when Greta learned that Roosevelt had won in a landslide. “Seven million votes,” she exclaimed in wonder as the radio at the Bierpalast announced the news, as “Happy Days Are Here Again” played in the background.
“That’s fine for the Americans,” grumbled one friend, “but what does that mean for us here in Germany?”
“Perhaps it’s a sign that the world is turning in a new, progressive direction,” said Greta.
Josef regarded her in disbelief. “Did you pick up this habit of unwarranted optimism in the States?”
Greta almost laughed. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who considers me an optimist.”
“It’s all relative. Go ask Professor Einstein.”
Another friend raised his hands, a plea for peace. “If Mr. Roosevelt can turn the American economy around, perhaps their banks will resume issuing foreign loans. That would help us here.”
“Eventually, perhaps,” said Josef, “but not for years.”
“Then happy days aren’t here quite yet,” Greta conceded, “but perhaps they’re coming.”
Her hopes seemed prescient a few days later when the National Socialists were dealt an unexpected blow at the German polls—the loss of two million votes and thirty-four seats in the Reichstag. The Social Democrats fared better, losing only twelve seats, but that still put them in second place behind the Nazis. The Communists finished third, but they boasted a gain of eleven seats in the Reichstag, while all the other parties shifted negligibly for better or worse.
It was about as good an outcome as Greta could have hoped for, and she smiled as she went about her work that day, more lighthearted and hopeful than she had been since those sunny, peaceful days in Zurich. Even Professor Mannheim noticed. “You’re fairly dancing as you shelve those books,” he remarked, looking up from his paper-strewn desk to study her over the rims of his glasses. “To what do we owe your good spirits?”
“The election, of course,” said Greta, resting a stack of books on her hip. “Aren’t you pleased?”
He shrugged. “It could have been much worse.”
“Yes, and how very happy I am that it wasn’t! Until now, the Nazis have gained seats with every election. Finally their streak is broken. Germany has rejected fascism at last.”
“Let’s not open the champagne just yet,” Professor Mannheim cautioned. “The National Socialists may have lost seats, but they still carried a third of the electorate. More than eleven million seven hundred thousand Germans believe that Adolf Hitler is fit to govern.”
“But perhaps this marks a turning point. As more people finally understand what the Nazis represent, more people will reject them.”
“I fear that people do indeed know what Hitler wants, and what he intends, and that is precisely why they vote for him. Not because they misunderstand him, but because they understand him very well, and approve.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Professor.”
“I hope so too,” he replied. “But you’re right that we must celebrate victories, however small. The Nazis may hold the most seats in the Reichstag, but they don’t have a majority. Unless they form a coalition with another party, they will not be able to govern unimpeded. It’s likely that President Hindenburg and Chancellor von Papen will continue to rule by decree.”
Greta shrugged, unwilling to relinquish hope on such a day. “Better their decrees than Hitler’s.”
Professor Mannheim nodded grimly. “On that point, Miss Lorke, I wholeheartedly agree.”
Chapter Nine
December 1932–February 1933
Mildred
In August, Mildred received a job offer to teach night class
es at the Berlin Abendgymnasium, a new school founded by the Social Democrats where working-class adults could complete their secondary education and qualify for university. Although the new position paid less and lacked the prestige of the University of Berlin, Mildred admired the school’s mission and was relieved to have beaten the odds by finding work at all.
Most of her students were around her age, experienced in office or factory work but unfamiliar with the classroom. Unemployed or barely hanging on to jobs they feared soon would disappear, they had enrolled in night school hoping that study would help them rise in society. Tuition was nominal, textbooks were provided free of charge, and needy students were offered subsidized meals at a nearby restaurant before classes. When Mildred observed her students from the front of the classroom, she saw determined, hopeful men and women, neatly attired in dark suits and dresses, shoes shined, hair carefully groomed, expressions revealing a sincere willingness to learn.
The only woman and the only American on the faculty, Mildred had also been appointed supervisor of the English Club, which sponsored lectures on academic and cultural topics and occasionally put on Shakespeare plays. Many of her own students had signed up, and as she got to know them better through club activities, she learned that several shared her antifascist beliefs as well. She invited a select few to join her weekly study group, and was pleased to discover how much their experiences and perspectives enriched the group’s discussions.
As the weeks passed, she became very fond of her students and worried about the grim economic reality that awaited them upon graduation. No matter how well she taught them, no matter how diligently they toiled or how thoroughly they prepared, the jobs they deserved might not exist when they graduated.
Arvid’s situation was proof enough that even the best and brightest could find their professional hopes thwarted, although in his case, politics as much as the poor economy had kept him from attaining a university professorship. Mildred’s heart overflowed with love and pride to see him undeterred, uncomplaining, working away at the law firm while continuing to pursue his dream. After organizing a research trip to the Soviet Union for ARPLAN, he had written a detailed report about the factories, farms, and public works they had visited, the officials they had met, and the lectures and cultural events they had attended. After distributing copies to the other members of the group, he had begun writing an economic and cultural guide to the Soviet Union, delineating its unique national character and the workings of its planned economy. “When I finish the manuscript, I’m going to find a publisher,” Arvid had told her, yawning through breakfast after another late night toiling over his papers and notes. “A well-received book could finally win me an appointment as a university professor.”
Arvid’s resolve, her students’ determination, and her faith in them all sustained Mildred through that contentious autumn. Then came the November election, and the Nazis’ setback helped make the Christmas season of 1932 the merriest she had known since the National Socialists had begun their cruel, clawing struggle for power.
More good news came early in the New Year when Arvid’s manuscript was accepted for publication by Rowohlt, one of the largest and most prestigious publishers in Germany. When Arvid insisted that she use half of his advance payment to buy herself a new warm winter coat, she agreed on the condition that he use the other half to replace his glasses, which had an outdated prescription and a broken earpiece held together with glue.
“There’s so much to work for in the world nowadays,” Mildred wrote to her mother in late January after sharing Arvid’s happy news. “Never have there been more glorious prospects. I’m thirty years old and I have the work I want, and there are no insurmountable obstacles to my advancement. Life is good.”
The following evening, bundled warmly in her new wool coat and a scarf Arvid’s mother had knitted for her, she walked to the Berlin Abendgymnasium only to find several of her students waiting for her outside the front entrance, their expressions grim.
“Have you heard?” asked Karl Behrens, a metalworker who aspired to be a mechanical engineer. “Hindenburg has appointed Hitler chancellor.”
Mildred’s heart plummeted. “Are you sure?”
“I know a clerk on the president’s staff,” said Paul Thomas. “Hindenburg’s people tried to form a coalition backed by the army, but when that failed, they began negotiations with the National Socialists. The Nazis convinced Hindenburg that their conservative members will be able to constrain Hitler’s more extreme impulses, and so—” He gestured angrily with his single arm. “The Old Gentleman went ahead and did it.”
“Chancellor Adolf Hitler,” said Mildred, testing the words. They rang alarmingly false. “This can’t be.”
“But it is,” said another student, clutching her books to her chest. “What do we do now?”
At the moment Mildred had no idea if there was anything they could do, but she would not discourage her students after they had turned to her for hope. “We go to class,” she said firmly, gesturing to the entrance. “We carry on as always, but watchfully. Your education is still as important today as it was yesterday.”
By sheer force of will, Mildred focused her thoughts and conducted the class as if it were an ordinary evening. Judging by her students’ expressions, they seemed equally divided between those who regarded the news of Hitler’s rise with dread and those who exultantly welcomed it. The latter snatched up their books and raced from the room as soon as class ended, while most of the former stayed behind. Mildred offered them what encouragement she could as they commiserated and speculated about what this sudden and dramatic shift might mean for the future.
When the class finally dispersed, she was surprised to discover Arvid waiting for her outside the front entrance. With him was his eighteen-year-old stepnephew Wolfgang Havemann, a law student at the University of Berlin. Arvid’s sister Inge had remarried the year before; Wolfgang was the son of her new husband, the concert violinist and conservatory professor Gustav Havemann.
“Wolfgang and I were walking by and we thought we would see you home,” Arvid said, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
“The university has been crackling with tension ever since the news broke,” said Wolfgang. “The Communists are going to protest Hitler’s appointment outside the Chancellery.”
“We thought we might go to observe,” said Arvid, “and to show the Nazis that not only the Communists oppose them.”
Mildred ignored a pang of apprehension. “Lead on.”
As they approached the Reichskanzlei, they found no discernible presence of the opposition, but only throngs of Nazi enthusiasts lining the sidewalks, men and women, jovial and menacing with their broad smiles and swastika flags. Most of them gazed up at a window on the second floor of the Reichskanzlei, their faces bright with eager reverence, while others craned their necks to look down Wilhelmstrasse.
At the sound of distant cheers and marching feet, Mildred seized Arvid’s hand and pulled him to a stop. Wolfgang too halted, and as the crowd stirred with excitement all around them, they glimpsed a red, flickering glow down the boulevard, steadily rising in intensity as it moved toward them.
“Fire?” said Wolfgang.
Arvid nodded. “Torches.”
Soon the marchers appeared, Brownshirts in front, torches held aloft, smoke rising to the winter sky. Then came black-clad SA, metal insignia gleaming in the torchlight. “Deutschland erwache!” someone in the crowd shouted, and another man took up the cry, and then on both sides of the street, voices rang out in song, “Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles!”
Row after row of marchers passed, faces stern and proud and triumphant, a flood of black and brown uniforms, torchlight and gleaming metal. Suddenly the voices swelled to a roar. When Arvid turned toward the Reichskanzlei, Mildred followed his gaze and discovered that a pair of tall windows on the second floor had opened and a man stood silhouetted against the bright electric lights blazing in the room behind him. She recognized him
immediately, his slight stature and favored salute—right arm outstretched stiffly, palm facing down—straight brown hair parted low on the left and combed over, the unfashionable square of a mustache between his nose and upper lip.
“Meet our new chancellor,” Wolfgang muttered in disgust as Hitler saluted one section of the crowd and then another, drinking in their adulation.
“It doesn’t seem real,” said Mildred, sick at heart. She could not bear to watch the new chancellor beam and gloat, but the scene below his window was no better. Ordinary men and women, her neighbors and fellow citizens, cheered him with stunning fervor. All the while, the parade of SA and SS men went on, twenty thousand marchers or more, their faces proud and sinister in the torchlight.
“Mark them well, these men with their straps fastened and daggers polished,” Arvid said to his nephew, his gaze shifting from the new chancellor to the officers saluting him. “They’re bloodthirsty and capable of anything. You’ll see. With those torches they’ll first set Germany ablaze, and then the rest of Europe. They’ll have you in uniform before you know it.”
Wolfgang blanched. “Arvid,” Mildred chided.
“You’ll see,” Arvid repeated. He took Mildred’s hand and jerked his head to indicate she and Wolfgang should follow him out of the throng. They had all seen enough.
The next day, Mutti Harnack sent word that Arvid’s cousin Dietrich Bonhoeffer would be delivering an address on the radio the following evening on a special broadcast about Hitler’s unexpected appointment. As a Lutheran minister, Dietrich had been asked to offer a religious perspective.
On the evening of February 1, Mildred and Arvid invited their progressive discussion group over to listen to Dietrich’s address, which he had titled “The Younger Generation’s Altered View of the Concept of Führer.”
“If they expect my cousin to praise Hitler as a good Christian and admonish everyone to accept his appointment as the will of God, they’re in for a surprise,” said Arvid as he tuned in the station. As a crescendo of symphony music and the announcer’s smooth baritone marked the beginning of the program, he quickly joined Mildred on the sofa while everyone gathered around the radio.
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