Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Then why do we object?” her mother replied.

  Sara’s heart thudded. She inhaled deeply, silently, straining her ears to hear more.

  “Object?” said her father. “A strong word for a small uncertainty.”

  “Natan calls him an empty suit.”

  “Natan has very high expectations for the young men who pursue his sisters.”

  “He always has,” said her mother. “Sara loves Dieter. Shouldn’t that be enough for us?”

  “I suppose.” Her father sighed. “We should think of all the good that may come from this marriage. He’s advancing in his career and he will surely be a good provider.”

  “Yes, and he’s very handsome, so our grandchildren will be beautiful.”

  “Beautiful Jews or beautiful Christians? I think Sara’s mother-in-law will have the last word.”

  “Jakob—”

  “Yes, yes, focus on the good.” A chair creaked as if her father had risen and had begun to pace the room. “He’ll give her an Aryan last name. That might protect her from Nazi harassment.”

  “And he travels abroad often. If Sara needs to flee the country, he should be able to organize a quick escape.”

  Their voices faded to murmurs, but Sara had heard enough. She crept back upstairs to bed, her tea forgotten. She lay under the covers, heartsick and confused, until she heard her parents climb the stairs and retire to their room down the hall. Only then was she able to drift off to sleep.

  The next morning, nagged by guilt for eavesdropping, she said nothing to her parents about what she had overheard. If they sensed her downcast spirits, they hid it well. And yet Sara’s mother unexpectedly followed her to the door and hugged her as she was leaving for her first class. “It’s true that you and Dieter have much to discuss before you marry,” she said, “but all couples do. Take heart, my dear.”

  “Thanks, Mutti,” said Sara, blinking back tears and kissing her cheek.

  Later that afternoon, instead of going directly home after her last class, Sara took the Untergrundbahn to her sister’s neighborhood. She arrived at their home just as Amalie and the nanny were coming outside with the children, adorable in their matching dresses and dark brown braids. “Would you like to come to the park with us?” Amalie asked, but after she took in Sara’s expression, her smile faded. “Or perhaps Mrs. Gruen can take the girls, and you and I can stay here for a cup of coffee and a good chat.”

  When Sara nodded, fighting back tears, her sister quickly kissed the girls goodbye, murmured instructions to Mrs. Gruen, and sent them on their way. Putting an arm around Sara’s shoulders, she led her inside to the kitchen, directed her to sit, and put on a pot of coffee. “Now then,” she said when they both had steaming cups in hand and a plate of English biscuits on the table between them, “why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

  Out spilled the entire story—Natan’s remarks, Frau Koch’s concerns, their parents’ valiant attempts to find a silver lining in Sara’s engagement. “I don’t know what to do,” Sara lamented. “I was happy, and now—” She lifted her hands and let them fall to her lap. “Everyone is anxious, and I hate that I’ve upset Mama and Papa, and I just want everyone to like Dieter and be happy for us.”

  “I like Dieter,” said Amalie. “I’m happy for you. I know Wilhelm is too.”

  Sara felt a rush of gratitude. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Amalie reached for Sara’s hand and clasped it on top of the table. “I won’t pretend that the religious differences aren’t significant, because of course they are. So are questions about how you’ll raise your children. Wilhelm and I went through this too before we married.” She smiled, but her brows drew together in concern. “Don’t shy away from the difficult, uncomfortable questions. Those are the ones you most need to answer. You can’t possibly prepare for every challenge that might come up in a marriage, but the question of your children’s religion is one you must resolve before you marry. Don’t imagine things will sort themselves out after your children are born. Whatever you decide, you both must be sure you can abide by that decision without harboring any secret hopes that the other will change their mind.”

  Reluctantly, Sara forced herself to ask, “You don’t think I should break off the engagement?”

  “Of course not. No one has suggested that, not even Frau Koch.” Amalie studied her intently. “Unless you’re suggesting it now. Are you?”

  “No, not at all,” said Sara quickly, shaking her head. “I love Dieter with all my heart. I want to marry him.”

  “Then you should.” Amalie smiled, but her eyes glistened. “Oh, Sara, there’s so much hatred and fear in the world right now that if you’re fortunate enough to find true love, you should embrace it, cherish it, as a rare and precious gift.”

  Sara smiled through her tears and clasped her sister’s hand tightly. She hoped that what she and Dieter had was true love. Was there really any way to know until a love was tested and either grew stronger or shattered?

  “Cherish love, Sara.” Amalie’s voice was a soft, fierce whisper. “Only love will sustain us in these dark times. Fear can’t do that. Worry can’t. Only love.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  July 1933

  Martha

  The sea was calm and beautiful throughout the Dodd family’s eight-day voyage from New York to Hamburg, so although Martha grieved for all she had left behind in America—the family’s comfortable home on Blackstone Avenue in Hyde Park, her job as assistant literary editor at the Chicago Tribune, dear friends like Carl Sandburg and Thornton Wilder, who encouraged her writing—her sorrow lessened day by day. She passed the hours strolling the decks of the Washington with her mother, enjoying the sunshine and breezes; playing cards and cracking wise with her older brother, Bill Jr.; and dutifully listening while her father read aloud from a German history textbook for an hour every day so she would become familiar with the language. In the evenings, she drank champagne and danced with Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr., the president’s second-youngest son, who by a delightful coincidence happened to be on board the same ship as his father’s new ambassador to Germany.

  Months before, when rumors first began swirling that William Dodd was being considered for a position in President Roosevelt’s administration, he confided to his family that he hoped for an appointment to Belgium or Holland, where his role would be prestigious but his duties light enough so he could continue his academic life’s work, a comprehensive history of the Old South. Then, in early June, Mr. Roosevelt phoned his office at the University of Chicago to offer him the embassy in Berlin. “I want an American liberal in Germany as a standing example,” the president said, and gave him two hours to decide.

  Naturally he accepted, once his wife gave her reluctant consent. William Dodd was not the sort of man to refuse a direct request from his president to serve his country.

  Martha’s father had invited her and Bill to come along, promising them the adventure of a lifetime. Martha could assist her mother in her role as official embassy hostess, and Bill could pursue his doctorate. Whereas Martha thought it would be a lark, full of embassy parties, cocktails with foreign diplomats, and a waltz with a prince or two, Bill said he most looked forward to experiencing German culture on the precipice of historic transformation. She teased him for his foreboding tone, the same one he used whenever he mentioned the Nazis. From the little she had read about the National Socialist movement, it sounded wonderfully exciting, youthful and vigorous and strong and noble, much like their own American Revolution. How thrilling it would be to witness the rejuvenation of Germany firsthand, and from such a vantage point as the American embassy! All that she would experience in the year ahead would invigorate her writing like nothing else.

  A breathtaking glimpse of Ireland from afar—an enchanting vision of brilliant emerald hills, lush and wild in the golden dawn—heralded the end of their ocean crossing. Many passengers disembarked at Southampton a few hours later, while still more, including t
he young Mr. Roosevelt, went ashore at Le Havre. The Dodd family remained aboard for the dull, slow sail up the Elbe to Hamburg, where they docked at long last on July 13.

  Martha had eagerly anticipated taking the famous “Flying Hamburger” express train to Berlin, but when Counselor of Embassy George Gordon met the Dodds at the pier, they discovered that no arrangements had been made to transport them to the capital. Complicating matters was the Dodds’ reliable old Chevrolet, which Martha’s father had insisted upon bringing along so he could drive himself rather than indulge in the customary extravagance of a chauffeur. Bill agreed to drive the car to Berlin, and while he worked his way through the mountain of paperwork required to get the car from the ship’s hold onto German soil, Gordon scrambled to book two compartments aboard a disappointingly ordinary train for Martha, her parents, and himself. In the meantime, the new ambassador fielded questions from a throng of reporters, his shy wife and smiling daughter standing by his side, their arms full of bouquets presented to them by various officials and organizations.

  Before long their train departed. At first, they all gathered in one compartment so that Gordon could brief them on what they could expect upon their arrival in Berlin. Martha listened politely, but she soon began to develop an intense dislike for the embassy’s second in command and passionately wished she were motoring along with her brother instead. George Gordon was a gentleman of the old school, impeccably attired in an elegant, finely tailored suit more expensive than any her father had ever owned, complete with gloves, stick, and a proper hat. He had a ruddy complexion and gray-white hair, and the tips of his mustache curled upward as if to approximate the smile he had yet to offer. He spoke in a clipped, formal, and unmistakably condescending accent, and he was clearly rendered aghast by the Dodds’ lack of pretension and uniformed servants. President Roosevelt had heartily endorsed her father’s plan to live modestly and limit expenditures, but apparently no one had told Gordon. Most ambassadors were men of means who entertained foreign dignitaries lavishly, paying from their own pocket when they inevitably went over budget. If Gordon expected a man as principled as William Dodd to continue in that style while millions of unemployed Americans were going hungry, he was in for a rude awakening.

  Finally Gordon announced that he had important political developments to discuss with the ambassador in strict confidence. Recognizing their cue, Martha and her mother left the two men alone to talk, slipping gratefully into the relative peace and quiet of the other compartment, fragrant with the flowers that had been presented to them at the pier.

  “What an insufferable fellow,” said Martha, moving aside a pile of bouquets and settling down in a seat by the window.

  “He’s only doing his job,” her mother replied mildly, but her face was drawn, as if Gordon’s demeanor had confirmed her worst fears of what the European dignitaries would expect of her as the ambassador’s wife.

  “I suppose so,” Martha conceded. “Let’s just hope he lets Dad do his.”

  She gazed at the passing scenery for a while, murmuring reassuring replies when her mother worried aloud about the duties facing her, the sudden and dramatic disruption to the comfortable pattern of her days. Eventually the rocking of the train and the rumble of the wheels upon the track lulled Martha to sleep.

  She woke with a start three hours later when the train shrieked to a halt at the Lehrter Bahnhof, the majestic train station on the Spree in central Berlin. Stiff and yawning, she barely had time to rub the sleep from her eyes and put on her hat before she and her parents were ushered outside to the platform, where a crowd of people speaking in German and English awaited them. Gordon pointed out a few representatives from the U.S. embassy standing near the front, while several officials from the German foreign bureau were easily identified by their swastika armbands and lapel pins. Perfectly placed to observe the scene was a crush of newspaper reporters and photographers. Their flashbulbs popped blindingly until Martha could no longer discern faces through the spots before her eyes, but she gamely smiled first this way and then that as people called to her.

  Eventually the furor subsided and a smiling man of medium height bounded forward to introduce himself as George Messersmith, the counsel general. Martha immediately recognized his name; her father had mentioned reading his dispatches to Washington describing the state of affairs in Germany. Martha took an instant liking to him as he courteously brought forward prominent members of the crowd who wished to meet the ambassador and his family—German officials, American expatriates, and representatives from other foreign embassies. Martha was most pleased to meet the leader of the American Women’s Club, a lovely blonde, slender and tall, with large, serious gray-blue eyes and a manner that suggested thoughtful contemplation of her words before she spoke. The club presented Martha and her mother with a lovely bouquet, and before long so many other groups had showered them in beautiful roses, orchids, and other blossoms that their arms became too full to accept any more.

  At a word from Messersmith, Martha’s father took the press corps aside, read some brief prepared remarks, and invited questions. After a few moments, a plump, golden-haired woman who looked to be around forty approached Martha and her mother and offered to help carry their flowers. “Thank you,” said Martha, inclining her head toward her mother.

  “It’s the least I can do for a coworker,” the woman remarked as she took on more than half of Mrs. Dodd’s burden. She seemed just about Martha’s height, five foot three, with an impish face and a tenacious gleam in her blue eyes. “Sigrid Schultz, the Tribune’s correspondent in chief for Central Europe.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Martha. “I’ve read your work, and I’ve seen your photo in the office.”

  “What are your first impressions of Berlin?” Sigrid asked Martha’s mother.

  “That depends,” Martha interjected before her mother could reply, with a teasing smile to soften the sting. “Is this an interview?”

  “If I let you off the hook now, would you grant me an exclusive later?”

  “We’d be delighted to have you over for tea and a chat, Miss Schultz,” said Martha’s mother graciously. “Just as soon as we’re settled.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The crowd had begun to disperse, and Gordon was gesturing toward a nearby curb where two gleaming black Mercedes-Benzes waited, presumably to carry the Dodds, their luggage, and their escorts to their lodgings. As Martha and her mother bade the lingering well-wishers goodbye, Sigrid touched Martha’s arm. “Don’t leave just yet.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called to the tall slender blonde from the American Women’s Club. “Mildred, do you have a moment?”

  The woman nodded, then exchanged a few words with her companions and returned to the platform. “Hello, Sigrid,” she said, her voice warm and mellifluous. “Mrs. Dodd, Miss Dodd.”

  “Please call me Martha,” she said, though it was a relief to hear herself referred to as Miss Dodd again. If she had her way, no one in Germany would ever know her married name. Her divorce would surely be wrapped up soon, so why not reclaim her maiden name now?

  “You two really ought to know each other better,” said Sigrid. “You’re both midwesterners, and you share a love of literature and writing.”

  “You’re a writer?” asked Martha, pleased. “I used to write for the Tribune, like Sigrid here, but just book reviews, author profiles, and publishing news. Nothing as glamorous as news reports from around the globe.”

  “I wish I were so prolific,” said Mildred, smiling. “I’d like to write more poetry and fiction, but teaching, studying, and working on my doctoral dissertation consumes all my time.”

  “So you’re a scholar as well as a writer,” said Martha. “You and my father would get along wonderfully. You must come to lunch at the embassy so I can properly introduce you.”

  Mildred said she would be delighted and gave Martha her card, but their conversation ended abruptly when Counselor Gordon strode over and announced that the cars were ready
to depart.

  Martha assumed she would ride with her mother while her father went off with the embassy officers, but there was much bustle and confusion, worsened by the press corps shouting questions. Martha was led to a car already occupied by an embassy officer Messersmith introduced as the family’s Protokol secretary. At first she was pleased—the officer was rather good-looking, young, blond, broad-shouldered—but she was startled when Messersmith suddenly closed the door before anyone else climbed in. As their driver pulled into traffic, she craned her neck just in time to glimpse her parents packed into the other car with Messersmith, his wife, and Gordon.

  They drove south, crossing a bridge over the Spree and proceeding down long, straight boulevards into the city. The orderly grid reminded her of Chicago, but little else she glimpsed through the windows did. Instead of the familiar skyscrapers of the Loop or the tall brownstones of Hyde Park, the buildings were rather low, rarely more than five stories tall, with charming stone buildings centuries old set beside modern structures with glass walls, curved façades, and flat roofs. The energy of the streets also reminded her of home—the sidewalks bustling with businessmen and shoppers, the streets full of omnibuses, electric trams, and autos, a swift river of color and chrome.

  The Protokol officer pointed out various landmarks as they passed, which Martha understood as an invitation to consider him her tour guide. She asked him about this building and that street, until her incessant curiosity apparently got the better of him and his voice became strained, his replies increasingly brusque.

  “That, of course, is the Reichstagsgebäude,” he said as they passed an enormous sandstone building on an open plaza, an imposing Italianate Renaissance structure with towers two hundred feet tall at the four corners.

  “I thought it had burned down,” Martha exclaimed. From what she had read in the papers, she had expected a pile of rubble and ash, but the towers stood tall and the walls seemed undamaged. “It looks all right to me. Tell me what happened.”