“In Mr. Panofsky’s place,” Mildred ventured, “wouldn’t you do whatever was necessary to protect the ones you love?”
“In his place, I’d leave Germany,” said Martha, taking pen in hand again. “I wouldn’t stay here another day. I’d gather my children and get out.”
In early October, Martha invited Mildred and Arvid to a birthday party she was throwing for herself at Tiergartenstrasse 27a. Mildred readily accepted, but she almost regretted it in the days that followed when she learned that it would be a rather lavish affair, the guest list crowded with royals, nobles, the offspring of foreign diplomats, and young government officials. Mildred had only two dresses suitable for parties, neither of them formal enough for Martha’s gala, but when she confided to Arvid’s sister Inge that she was tempted to cancel, Inge immediately led her to her own closet, pulled out a lovely blue crepe de Chine dress, and insisted that Mildred take it.
On the night of October 8, Arvid put on his best dark suit and escorted Mildred, feeling lovely and carefree in her new gown, to the ambassador’s residence, where the party was already well under way. In the ballroom, guests chatted as jazz played on the Victrola and the butler and a maid circulated with trays of drinks. Martha was clearly enjoying herself as she mingled among her guests, sipping champagne, introducing an American to a German here, flirting with a debonair young officer there. Little Hans and Ruth were nowhere to be seen, and over the music, Mildred could not hear them either.
“I see friendly faces over there,” said Mildred as she glimpsed Quentin Reynolds chatting with Sigrid Schultz on the other side of the dance floor. “Let’s say hello.”
She and Arvid made their way to the pair, who were engrossed in conversation with another man, slight and dark, with keen, glowering eyes and a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. They spoke earnestly in low voices, and every so often one would glance casually over a shoulder as if keeping watch for eavesdroppers. At the sight of Mildred and Arvid approaching, the third man abruptly fell silent.
“Don’t worry about these two,” Sigrid told him. “They’re all right.” Quickly she introduced Mildred and Arvid to Norman Ebbutt, a correspondent with the London Times. “We’re holding a wake for journalistic freedom in Germany.”
“I thought that died in March,” said Arvid. “Hitler murdered it with the Reichstag Fire Decree.”
Sigrid sighed and sipped her wine. “True enough, but the Schriftleitergesetz that the rubber-stamp Reichstag passed four days ago put the final nail in its coffin.”
“This Editors Law forbids non-Aryans to work in journalism,” said Ebbutt, his British accent mitigating none of his disgust. “When it goes into effect on January first, no Jew, and no one married to a Jew, will be permitted to work as a journalist or editor. And editors will be required to cut any story, any statement, that might, and I quote, ‘weaken the strength of the Reich’ here in Germany or abroad.”
Sigrid shrugged. “If they don’t want us to write about the bad things they do, they shouldn’t do bad things.”
Mildred knew the details of the law well thanks to Sara Weitz, who had analyzed it thoroughly for their study group the day before it went up for a vote in the Reichstag. Sara’s brother was an editor at the Berliner Tageblatt, and she was deeply concerned about what the new restrictions would mean for him.
“It was only a matter of time,” said Quentin. “Hitler knows that nothing poses a greater danger to a fascist regime than the free press. He and Goebbels are determined to put us in a chokehold, silencing our voices, discrediting whatever stories we manage to get past their censors.”
“‘Our voices’?” echoed Mildred. “The law applies to foreign correspondents too?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Ebbutt. “I’m not terribly optimistic.”
Even if foreign correspondents were exempt, Mildred knew many editors and writers who would suffer under the law—Sara’s brother, former colleagues from the University of Berlin, as well as a significant proportion of their literary salon.
They commiserated a while longer, until Quentin and Ebbutt wandered off in search of another drink and Sigrid excused herself to hunt down a certain Nazi official whom she hoped would give her a quote for a story.
Just then, Mildred and Arvid spotted Martha coming their way on the arm of a tall man in his early forties with receding blond hair, shrewd blue eyes, and a mouth pursed in a contemplative frown. She introduced him as Hans Thomsen, an official who served as a liaison between the Chancellery and the Foreign Ministry. Thomsen’s eyebrows rose when he learned that Mildred was an American, an academic, and an expert in American literature. “I’m very interested in contemporary American authors,” he said, a faint Scandinavian accent coloring his English. “I’m especially curious to know which writers have the most influence with the American people.”
“You’ll have to ask her later,” said Martha, smiling as she linked her arm through Mildred’s. “I have to borrow Frau Harnack for a moment. In the meantime, Dr. Harnack is a brilliant economist, and if you ask nicely, I’m sure he’ll explain his plan for saving the German economy.”
Thomsen regarded Arvid with new interest. “Do you indeed have a plan, or is Miss Dodd giving me false hope?”
“I have a few ideas,” Arvid acknowledged.
“Then you could be just the man the Reich needs.”
“We’ll leave you to it.” As Martha led Mildred away, she added in an undertone, “Here’s hoping they become fast friends. With a word to the right person, Herr Thomsen could help Arvid get a job at the Economics Ministry.”
“I doubt they’ll hit it off,” murmured Mildred. “Thomsen’s a Nazi.”
“Yes, and very well placed. He and Hitler are quite close. It’ll be fine. Tommy’s not one of the fanatical ones. My father considers him relatively reasonable.”
“Tommy?” Mildred echoed, amused. “Another romantic conquest?”
“Not one of mine. He’s enamored with Elmina Rangabe, the Greek minister’s daughter.” Martha nodded toward the fireplace, where a beautiful dark-haired young woman in an emerald satin gown was holding court. “If you knew who I’m currently seeing, you’d never approve.”
“I do know, and I don’t approve. The chief of the Gestapo is—”
“Not Rudolf.” Martha waved a hand dismissively, but there was a note of regret in her voice. “That’s history. You know what they say, the hottest flames burn the swiftest, until only embers remain.” She fanned herself with her hand. “We’re still friends, though.”
“That’s fortunate, since he would be a very dangerous enemy. Who’s your new fellow?”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting that out of me. If my father knew—” Martha shook her head, then brightened as an enormous black-haired man burst into the ballroom and was met by a chorus of welcomes. He was well over six feet tall and looked to be around 250 pounds, and when he greeted his friends, his voice boomed like a baritone roll of thunder above the din of the party. “Oh, you have to meet Putzi Hanfstaengl.”
A memory stirred as Mildred looked from her friend to the giant and back. “Is he your—”
“Putzi? Oh, God, no.” Martha laughed. “Just a friend. But he’s loads of fun. Don’t let appearances deceive you. He’s a Harvard man, and was quite the star of the Hasty Pudding Club as a student. He plays piano and sings too.” She rose up on tiptoe and waved to the newcomer, who spotted her, beamed, and began making his way through the crowd to them. “In his student days he became good friends with Theodore Roosevelt Jr., a classmate, and he visited the White House often. Once he played the piano in the White House basement with such vigor that he broke seven strings.”
Suddenly Mildred remembered why his surname sounded familiar. “Is Putzi Hanfstaengl related to Ernst Hanfstaengl, the Nazi who gave Quentin such a hard time about his article?”
“One and the same. Putzi’s a nickname. He’s not just Hitler’s foreign press chief. They’re longtime friends, very close.” Mart
ha said the last in a hurried whisper as the man reached them. There were greetings and introductions, and although the big man was charming and spoke at a more civilized volume at close range, by the time he was called away to meet other friends, Mildred felt quite overwhelmed. She was relieved when Martha left to circulate among her guests and she could return to Arvid, who had not, as it happened, become best pals with Hans Thomsen, although Thomsen had found his economic theories intriguing.
Some time later, Mildred and Arvid were chatting with a young couple who were thinking about attending graduate school in the United States when the record on the Victrola began skipping.
“Put on Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony,” Putzi Hanfstaengl boomed.
“I know a tune you’ll like even better,” said Martha merrily as she crossed the room, graceful and swift, to change the record. After a moment of searching through the stack on a nearby shelf, she chose one, set it on the spindle, and lowered the needle. “This will get all you Germans singing.”
A moment later, the bright notes of brass filled the room, and after the first few measures Mildred recognized the “Horst Wessel Lied,” the Nazi Party anthem. How in the world had such a record ended up in the collection of the Dodd family? It couldn’t possibly belong to Alfred Panofsky.
As the lively march played on, Putzi Hanfstaengl and a few others raised their voices in song and the Nazi officers snapped out the Hitlergruss. Suddenly Hans Thomsen strode across the room and switched off the record player.
“What’s the matter?” protested Martha, smiling uncertainly, bewildered. “Don’t you like it?”
“This is not the sort of music to be played in mixed gatherings and in a flippant manner,” he snapped. “I won’t have you play our anthem, with its significance, at a social party.”
“The rest of us were enjoying it,” said Hanfstaengl. His grin carried a hint of warning. “It’s Martha’s birthday, her party, and her house. She can play what she likes.”
Martha’s cheeks had flushed red with surprise, but as Hanfstaengl spoke, she frowned at Thomsen, a challenge in her eyes.
“I won’t allow it,” said Thomsen shortly. He removed the record from the Victrola, slipped it into its cardboard sleeve, and returned it to the shelf.
Hanfstaengl shrugged and murmured a joke to the people standing nearest to him. As they stifled nervous laughter, he sat down at the piano, flexed his fingers, and began playing Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.
The festive mood of the party was spoiled, but as the evening passed, Mildred admired Martha for the cheerful, vivacious way she went about trying to restore it. Hans Thomsen left early with Elmina Rangabe on his arm, easing the tension considerably.
Later, as Mildred and Arvid were preparing to leave, they came upon Hanfstaengl offering Martha a few kind words of reassurance. “No harm was done,” he said in flawless English. “Find it in your heart to forgive him if you can.”
“Why should I?” Martha retorted. “I thought you would enjoy it. I certainly meant no insult. His reaction was totally out of proportion.”
“Perhaps, but some people have blind spots and no sense of humor regarding certain matters.” Hanfstaengl gently placed his enormous paws on Martha’s shoulders and bent to catch her eye. “One must be careful not to offend their sensitive souls.”
Softly Mildred cleared her throat to warn them they were not alone, and they quickly stepped apart. Arvid shook Hanfstaengl’s hand, Mildred kissed Martha on the cheek, and they both wished her a happy birthday.
“One must be careful not to offend the Nazis’ sensitive souls,” said Arvid acerbically when he and Mildred were alone on the sidewalk outside Tiergartenstrasse 27a. “They’re as precious and fragile as butterfly wings.”
“But of course,” said Mildred, taking his arm. “Nazis are known around the world for their delicate, sensitive, artistic souls.”
Arvid smiled wryly, and as they headed home, Mildred felt a small, guilty twinge of satisfaction. She was sorry that Martha had been embarrassed by a guest at her own birthday party, but if the insult helped shatter her illusions about the nobility and wisdom of the Nazis, Mildred could not regret it.
Chapter Twenty-one
October–December 1933
Martha
On the evening of Saturday, October 14, Martha carefully applied her favorite red lipstick, fluffed her short dark waves with her fingers, and smiled winsomely at herself in the mirror before pulling on her most flattering autumn coat and snatching up her purse. By that time her escort ought to be parked a block away, glancing at his watch with impatient hope and willing her to hurry. Any other fellow would have waited for her in the drawing room, enduring appraising looks from her mother and the third degree from her father, but this particular date was so fraught with political tension that she thought it best if she just slipped quietly out the front door.
She found Boris Vinogradov’s black Ford convertible parked exactly where he had promised to wait, the top up in deference to the season. She gracefully slipped into the front passenger seat, allowing him a quick, not-quite-accidental glimpse of thigh before smoothing her skirt down demurely.
Boris’s gaze flicked from her legs to her face. “Good evening, Miss Dodd. I thought you might have changed your mind.”
She shrugged. “No better offer came along, so here I am.”
He smiled and started the engine. “I’m honored that you spent so much time primping for me that it made you late.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she teased. “I just threw on the first thing I grabbed from my closet and ran a comb through my hair.”
“When you bade your parents goodbye, did your father mention what he thinks of Chancellor Hitler’s decision to withdraw Germany from the League of Nations and the World Disarmament Conference?”
She arched her eyebrows at him. “Who’s asking? Boris, my charming dinner companion, or Comrade Vinogradov, first secretary of the Soviet embassy?”
His only reply was a grin and a shrug.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” she replied airily. “As I’ve told you, my father never discusses diplomatic matters with me.”
She gazed out the window, pretending to admire the lights in the Tiergarten, her smile fading. After the shocking announcement earlier that day, her father had warned the family that with a single decision, Hitler had rendered the League of Nations impotent.
“They might as well tear up the Treaty of Versailles,” Bill had said. “The only possible explanation is that Hitler intends to rebuild the German military.”
“The other members of the League won’t permit that,” their father replied. “They would have no choice but to respond with force while they still have the power to subdue him. We’d have another war.”
“Impossible,” Martha protested. “No one wants another war in Europe.”
“The German people don’t want war, even if certain irrational leaders do,” Martha’s father had said. “Everything depends upon whether the will of the people will constrain Hitler, or whether Hitler will reshape the will of the people.”
In spite of the rising tensions, Martha’s father, his counterparts in the German diplomatic corps, and other foreign ambassadors were expected to conduct business on behalf of their governments as always, and that meant mixing cordially with Nazi officials at embassy dinners and other functions. Martha skipped the duller affairs unless her mother specifically asked her to attend, but if the invitation mentioned drinks and dancing, or if the guest list included particularly handsome and charming men, she happily accepted.
One Saturday evening in late October, Martha attended a cocktail party at the Italian embassy. It was a joy to forget her cares for a few hours, drinking and dancing in the ballroom with the young people while their elders talked somberly in little groups in the drawing room. Boris was not there, which disappointed Martha because he had promised to come, but Putzi attended, and they had a jolly time.
After two glasses of
champagne, Putzi confided that Hitler’s recent decisions troubled him. “His erratic temper is bad for the Reich,” he grumbled. “But what can I do? He’s surrounded by ambitious, unscrupulous men. He needs a good influence to counteract the bad.”
Martha shrugged and drained her glass. “He should spend more time with my father. You couldn’t find a more decent, honorable man, not in Germany and not in the States.”
“That’s a lot to ask of your father.” Suddenly Putzi brightened. “What Hitler needs is a woman.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. They say he’s completely indifferent to women, although he’s been involved with a few rather young girls—”
“Hush!” Putzi seized her elbow and steered her away from the others. “Don’t you care who might be listening?”
“Are you kidding? My father knows you’ve tapped the phones at the embassy and our residence. Don’t you already know everything I think and say?”
“I didn’t tap your phones.”
“I didn’t mean you personally.” Martha took a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “Some entry-level spook did it for you.”
Putzi heaved a sigh. “Martha, listen. I’m serious. All Hitler needs is the love of a good woman and he’ll calm down and become more reasonable. The right woman could transform the destiny of Europe.”
Martha raised her glass. “I wish her good luck and Godspeed.”
“Martha, you are the woman!”
She regarded him for a moment, uncertain whether to laugh or to be insulted. “I really don’t think so.”
Undeterred, Putzi cajoled and argued his way through the rest of the evening. When they parted company later that night, he must have imagined he detected some equivocation in her refusal, for he began calling her once or twice a day, until she found herself wavering. Perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy idea. Putzi considered Hitler a friend, so he must have some redeeming qualities.
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