Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “It’s not like that.” Greta shook her head, eyes downcast, hating to see herself diminished in her friend’s eyes. “It’s true that I wish he weren’t married, but I love him, and I’d rather have him this way than not at all.” She managed a short laugh. “I understand what you must think of me. You’ve always been so virtuous, so true. How can someone as perfect as you remain friends with someone as morally dubious as me?”

  “Oh, Greta—”

  “You know you’re thinking it.”

  “I’m not. I’m really not.” Mildred bit the inside of her lower lip, her eyes glistening. “I’m not perfect. Far from it.”

  “You’d have every right—”

  “No. Listen.” Mildred tucked her hands into her pockets and shook her head, sad and apprehensive. “I have a confession to make too, and when you hear it, you may be the one who can’t bear to stay friends with me.”

  “What’s the worst you’ve ever done? Forgot to make your bed one morning?”

  “I joined the National Socialist Teachers League.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Mildred nodded bleakly.

  “But why? Why would you do such a thing?”

  “In June, a few days before graduation, the principal informed me and the other holdouts among the faculty that if we wanted to continue working at the Berlin Abendgymnasium after the summer recess, we had to join.” Mildred pressed a hand to her waist. “I walked home in a daze, sick to my stomach, thoughts churning. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Arvid and I are barely getting by as it is. But I couldn’t bear to have any affiliation with racist, authoritarian brutes who burn books and persecute Jews. Signing my name to their roster would give tacit approval to beliefs and practices I find morally abhorrent.”

  “Then why didn’t you resign in protest?”

  “And what then? I would have faced the same requirement at every other school I might apply to. My choices were to join the league or give up teaching.” Mildred’s gaze fell upon a nearby bench, and with a heavy sigh, she sank down upon it. “Of course I joined in name only. I’ll never attend a meeting or participate in their activities. Arvid says the Nazis are wrong to make this a condition of my employment and they deserve to be deceived.”

  “He’s right. You had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.” Mildred clasped her hands together in her lap, pensive. “I’m not certain I made the right one.”

  Greta sat down beside her. “I’ve no doubt that every other teacher on the faculty made the same decision.”

  “They did,” Mildred acknowledged, “but you wouldn’t have. You would have told them what they could do with their job and their unreasonable requirements.”

  “And I would have found myself out of work and under increased scrutiny from the Gestapo, or placed into their so-called protective custody.”

  “But you would have known that you had done the right thing.”

  “What a great comfort my moral superiority would have been to me as I toiled in a work camp.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Mildred seemed to have missed Greta’s sarcasm. “So as you see, I’m far from perfect myself.”

  “If you say so.” Greta sighed and sat back against the bench. “Mildred, I didn’t tell you about Adam to unburden my soul or to prompt a confession from you.”

  “No?”

  Greta shook her head. “I’ve thought carefully about what Arvid said regarding expanding our circles of acquaintances, of joining smaller, isolated opposition groups into a larger network.”

  She fell silent as a heavyset man strolled past, a small white dog on a leash preceding him.

  Mildred regarded her intently, waiting for her to continue.

  “Adam and Arvid have a lot in common,” Greta said when they were alone once more. “I think they should meet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  August 1933

  Martha

  On the first day of August, Martha’s father informed his family that he had taken a fully furnished house on Tiergartenstrasse, a short, pleasant walk away from the American chancery on Bendlerstrasse. The owner, Alfred Panofsky, a partner with Jacquier and Securius Bank, had offered it at the astonishingly low rent of about 150 U.S. dollars a month.

  Martha and her mother exchanged a look, unable to imagine what could be found at that price on a street known for gracious, elegant homes. The old carriage house of a luxurious mansion converted into flats? Servants’ quarters in an attic? Martha was afraid to ask. Her father was exceedingly proud of the great bargain he had struck, so she prepared herself for the worst.

  She was in no hurry to relocate. She adored the Esplanade, her comfortable bedroom and the elegant reception halls where the family had already entertained many fascinating foreign dignitaries and handsome, exciting men—including Louis Ferdinand, Prince of Prussia and second in line of succession to the recently abolished German throne; Ernst Hanfstaengl, the German foreign press chief, who cheerfully urged Martha to call him by his nickname, Putzi; and Boris Vinogradov, the first secretary of the Soviet embassy, a particularly intriguing new acquaintance.

  Then there was Rudolf Diels, the young, compelling, and sinister chief of the Gestapo. His penetrating eyes could convey warmth or malevolence, but it was what lay behind those eyes that had earned him the sobriquet Prince of Darkness. He seemed to take a vicious joy in his mystique, which for Martha only enhanced the allure of his lovely full lips, his luxuriant black hair, and even the cruel, broken beauty of his scarred face. A long, shallow V marred his right cheek, a deep crescent the left, and smaller arcs cut across his chin and near his mouth—dueling scars, or so the rumors told. He was also said to possess great charm and sexual prowess—rumors Martha hoped to confirm for herself before long.

  Martha winced with chagrin whenever she imagined entertaining a guest like Rudolf Diels or hosting a banquet for high-ranking German officials and aristocratic foreign emissaries in a cheap flat. Her father’s determination to drive their own Chevrolet was an endearing quirk. His decision to rent the least expensive residence on the market could prove to be an embarrassment or worse.

  The next day, Martha, Bill, and their mother went to see Tiergartenstrasse 27a for themselves. The street ran along the southern edge of the park, offering them a lovely view of lush greenery and flowers as they walked along. When they reached the correct address, their doubt gave way to amazement. Their new home was a four-story stone mansion enclosed by a tall, ornate iron fence, with leafy trees rising above beautiful cultivated flower gardens in the front yard. The front façade curved gracefully, and through the foliage Martha glimpsed the main entrance near the northwest corner, at the base of a rounded tower rising the entire height of the building. Near the street, the driveway passed through a high gate with an elaborate ironwork arch and ended beneath a porte cochère. Above that rose a gallery one and a half stories tall with many windows to let in the light.

  Perhaps Martha’s father did not object to luxury after all, as long as it came at the right price.

  When they knocked on the front door, the butler, a stocky blond in his midforties, answered. Herr and Frau Panofsky were not at home, he informed them, but it would be his pleasure to give them a tour of the house.

  The residence was as impressive inside as it was from the outside. The main entrance led into a large foyer with coatrooms on opposite sides and a grand staircase at one end, drawing visitors above and away from the functional rooms that took up the rest of the first floor—the kitchen, pantry, laundry, ice room, various storage and supply areas, and the servants’ quarters. The second floor boasted two reception rooms, an expansive dining room with walls covered in red tapestry, and a ballroom with a gleaming oval dance floor and a grand piano, upon which sat a crystal vase filled with flowers.

  Several graciously appointed bedrooms were on the third floor. The master bath was immense, larger than some apartments Martha had known back in Chicago. The floors and walls glimmered with
gold and mosaics of multicolored tiles, and the massive bathtub stood on a raised platform like an altar to some pagan god of cleanliness.

  Martha nudged her brother. “On weekends we could sublet the tub to the German Olympic swim team.”

  As Bill guffawed, Fritz frowned primly and led the Dodds to the library. The walls were covered in dark wood and rich red damask and lined with bookshelves filled with a vast array of tempting volumes. A glass table held a vase abundant with flowers and a few artfully arranged rare books and manuscripts. At one end of the room stood a great stone fireplace with an elaborately carved mantel and a pair of comfortable leather chairs and a large leather sofa arranged before it. Light streamed in through tall windows with stained glass at the top, and the smells of old paper, leather, and flowers gave the library a familiar, welcoming atmosphere, beckoning Martha to choose a book and settle down for a long, indulgent read far from the cares of the outside world.

  Lastly Fritz took them to the Wintergarten, a glass-enclosed sunroom on the south end of the main floor that opened onto a terrace overlooking the garden. “Frau Panofsky would insist that you take refreshments before you go,” he said, and when they demurred, reluctant to impose, he bowed silently and departed. He soon returned with coffee and cake, which he served to them at a wrought-iron table on the terrace. With another slight bow, he left them.

  “Here’s to Dad,” Martha said, raising her teacup in a toast. “I’m sorry I doubted him.”

  “This is really quite a place,” said Bill, enjoying a hearty bite of cake. “And this cake is marvelous.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know that the cook and the rest of the staff will remain,” their mother said, pursing her lips as she gazed out at the verdant garden. “Mr. Panofsky was most insistent that they be allowed to stay, and your father was happy to agree.”

  Martha studied her. “That’s a rather sad face for such good news.”

  “I only wonder why the Panofskys are charging us so little for so much. How could they part with such a beautiful home and everything in it?”

  “Maybe they’re going abroad for a while but intend to return,” said Martha. “Maybe they’re tired of these beautiful things and want to buy new ones. Maybe they’re extraordinarily wealthy—”

  “Or extraordinarily desperate,” Bill broke in. “If the Panofskys are Jewish, they may be preparing to flee Germany.”

  “Surely not.” Martha gestured from the garden to the beautiful house. “Herr Panofsky clearly has money, and money equals power and influence no matter who runs the government.”

  “Not in Germany, not if you’re a Jew.” Bill leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Money, power, prestige—they offer scant protection now. A rich Jew is subject to the Aryan Laws as much as a poor Jew. The only exception is for veterans of the Great War and their immediate families, and who knows how long those provisions will last.”

  Martha raised her eyebrows at her brother. “What a grim appraisal.”

  “Grim but accurate. About fifty thousand Jews have left Germany since Hitler took over as chancellor. Others probably would too, if they could afford it and if they had somewhere to go.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” said their mother. “This home is lovely, but I don’t want to benefit from someone else’s misfortune.”

  That evening over dinner, their father confirmed some of what Bill had surmised. The Panofskys were Jews, but as far as he knew, the family did not intend to leave Germany. “They aren’t even leaving the house,” he said. “Mr. Panofsky’s wife and two children have gone to the countryside, but he and his mother are staying. They’re keeping the entire fourth floor and use of the elevator for themselves.”

  “I imagine it would be difficult to retreat to the attic while strangers enjoy your luxurious home,” said Martha’s mother, concern clouding her expression.

  “Herr Panofsky must think it will suit them,” said Martha’s father. “Perhaps he and his mother intend to join the rest of the family in the countryside soon.”

  When the Dodds moved in a few days later, they discovered beautiful floral arrangements throughout the house and a gracious letter from Herr Panofsky welcoming the family to his home, which he hoped they would consider their own for as long as they remained in Berlin. He expressed his admiration for America and encouraged them to come to him if they had any questions about Berlin or needed any recommendations for businesses and services.

  “It seems our landlord enjoys the novelty of hosting the American ambassador’s family,” Martha’s father remarked after he finished reading the letter aloud.

  “Perhaps that accounts for the low rent and their attic quarters,” Martha mused. Her father smiled, and her mother admitted that she made a fair point, but Bill merely shook his head, unconvinced.

  A week after the Dodds moved into Tiergartenstrasse 27a, they decided to take a road trip to see more of the country. They planned to drive south from Berlin to Leipzig, where Martha’s parents would linger for a few days so her father could visit his favorite old haunts from his graduate student days. Meanwhile, Martha and Bill would continue on all the way to Austria.

  As they were planning their route and debating what sights to see, Bill asked if he might bring a friend along. “Fine by me,” said Martha, tempted to suggest Rudolf Diels, who would surely prove to be as fascinating a guide as he was a dinner companion. Or perhaps Boris Vinogradov, whom she had been getting to know at various embassy functions. He was tall and blond with gorgeous blue-green eyes, a charming if inelegant dancer and quite the flirt. He spoke little English, and she spoke no Russian, but they managed to stumble along well enough in German.

  But Rudolf and Boris were her friends, not Bill’s, and Martha was well pleased with his choice—Quentin Reynolds, a journalist, formerly a sports reporter with the New York Telegram and recently appointed an associate editor of Collier’s Weekly. He was tall, burly, and quite handsome, with curly red hair, blue eyes, and a ready grin. Martha was not entirely disappointed that flirting with the Prince of Darkness and the Russian first secretary would have to wait until she returned to Berlin.

  Since Bill was bringing a friend, Martha suggested inviting Mildred Harnack too. Soon after the Dodds’ arrival in Berlin, Martha had asked Mildred to join her for lunch at the Palm Courtyard at the Esplanade, and they had become fast friends over their mutual love of literature and writing. They shared many favorite authors in common, and they eagerly recommended novels, new and classic, to one another. Mildred had asked Martha to join her literary salon, and at Martha’s invitation, Mildred had attended several teas and other functions at the embassy. Mildred spoke German perfectly and would have been excellent company on the road. Unfortunately, she had to decline, as their three-week itinerary would prevent her from returning to Berlin in time for the start of the new school term.

  Thus it was a party of five rather than six that departed Berlin on a warm, sunny Sunday morning. Bill drove the old family Chevrolet, their father took the front passenger seat beside him, and Martha sat in back between her mother and Quentin. Martha soon teased out of him that he was a native New Yorker of Irish ancestry, he despised the Nazis, and he hoped to write a novel or two someday. He would make a fine traveling companion, she thought, smiling to herself as she settled back to enjoy the ride.

  As they drove south through picturesque countryside and charming villages, Quentin asked Martha’s father how he was settling into his new job. After taking the precaution of declaring his remarks off the record, Martha’s father explained that he would not be officially recognized as the American ambassador to Germany until he could present his credentials to the president. However, Hindenburg had withdrawn to his estate at Neudeck in East Prussia to recuperate from an undefined illness and was not expected to return to the capital until the end of August. Until then, Martha’s father kept busy organizing his office, meeting his staff, briefing American news correspondents, and handling routine diplomatic issues. He had also lodged officia
l protests with the German government regarding the violent attacks on Americans. “Foreign citizens are under no obligation to offer this Hitlergruss, this Hitler salute,” he said. “If the current administration can’t establish that as official policy, I may have no choice but to urge the State Department to issue a travel warning.”

  Quentin’s eyebrows rose. “The German government would find that offensive, deeply humiliating.”

  “Indeed, which is why I’m confident they’ll do whatever is necessary to avoid it.”

  It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived in Wittenberg, where their first stop was the Schlosskirche. It was there that in 1517, Martin Luther had nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of the church’s main portal, sparking the Protestant Reformation.

  “I sometimes attended services here when I was a student,” Martha’s father reminisced as they climbed the front steps, but when he tried to open the door so they could look around, he found it locked. Disappointed, they descended the stairs just as a Nazi parade emerged around the corner of an adjacent street. While Martha looked on eagerly, the others exchanged wary glances, and by unspoken agreement, they quickly departed in the opposite direction.

  They spent an hour strolling around Wittenberg before climbing back aboard the Chevrolet and continuing south to Leipzig. They reached the city at one o’clock and went immediately to Auerbachs Keller, one of the most famous restaurants in Germany and a particular favorite of Goethe. “Do you recall the scene from Faust that took place in this very room?” Martha’s father asked as they sat around a long table awaiting their meal. “Faust and Mephistopheles met here, and the demon’s wine turned to fire.”

  “I’m glad I chose beer, then,” remarked Quentin, raising his stein and beckoning for a refill. Laughing, Bill and Martha raised theirs too and cheered, while their parents, who had kept to water and tea, looked on indulgently.

  After the meal, Martha, Bill, and Quentin suggested a walking tour to settle their heads before they resumed their journey. Martha’s father agreed, and he eagerly showed them around the city he had loved as a young scholar, pointing out his old favorite haunts as well as places of more historic significance.