Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  As she turned toward Neukölln, Sara felt her spirits rise for the first time since Natan had been arrested. Mildred would convince the ambassador to help them. She would persuade the ambassador, and the ambassador would persuade the Nazis, and Natan would come home to his family, safe and sound. This was Sara’s last hope. What might happen if it failed was too terrible to contemplate.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  August–December 1934

  Martha

  A year and a month into her father’s tenure as ambassador, Martha could not mistake the signs of his increasing pessimism as the United States remained firmly isolationist contrary to the best interests of America and of the world. Time and again he wrote to his superiors at the State Department warning them of Hitler’s ravenous ambitions, but it seemed that all he accomplished was to give his enemies within the diplomatic corps evidence that he was philosophically unsuited for his post and ought to be replaced.

  Sometimes Martha suspected her father might welcome that, especially on days when his efforts seemed especially futile and he contemplated asking for leave so he might visit Stoneleigh, his beloved 385-acre farm in Round Hill, Virginia. Although the rest of the family much preferred the comforts and modern conveniences of their Chicago brownstone, rustic Stoneleigh was the home of her father’s heart. As autumn approached, Martha knew he yearned to be harvesting Pippin and Cortland apples from his thriving orchards, or driving his two dozen Guernsey heifers out to graze in the pastures, or riding one of his four horses through the gently rolling Appalachians.

  Martha could not give him that, but whenever he sank too far into despondency, she would pull him away from his desk and invite him for a stroll through the Tiergarten. Once or twice a week they walked together, and as they admired the late summer flowers of August and then the first autumnal tints of September, he acknowledged his increasing frustration with his colleagues in Washington and his revulsion for his counterparts in Berlin.

  “It’s humiliating to be obliged to shake hands with known and confessed murderers,” he told her. “Murderers, moreover, who are plotting for war.”

  Martha’s heart quickened. “Do you really think so?”

  Her father nodded soberly. “There’s ample evidence that the Reich government is preparing for a massive struggle. It’s only a question of time. The German military is arming and drilling more than a million and a half men, all of whom are constantly indoctrinated in the belief that continental Europe must be subordinated to them.”

  Martha took her father’s arm. “You’re the president’s eyes and ears in Berlin. Why won’t the State Department heed your warnings?”

  “They fervently hope I’m wrong and can’t bear to admit I may be right. Congress wants us to stay out of any European conflicts, and so does the majority of the American people. As for me, I’m convinced we must abandon our isolationism, and I’ve written to Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur to tell him so.”

  “I hope he’ll listen.”

  “I hope so too, but I have grave doubts.” Her father heaved a sigh and patted her hand. “I’m afraid I must resign myself to the delicate work of watching and carefully doing nothing.”

  Martha knew her father was hardly “doing nothing.” In addition to continuously briefing Washington about the irrefutable signs of impending conflict and advocating for Americans who ran afoul of the Reich, he also helped persecuted Jews, in the limited fashion his office permitted. Mildred frequently asked him to facilitate a Jewish friend’s visa application or emigration to a more hospitable European nation, but one afternoon she approached Martha with a more unusual request. A Jewish journalist, the brother of one of her students, had been arrested more than three months before for violating the Editors Law and was being held in KZ Oranienburg. He had not been able to obtain legal counsel, and his family’s anxious pleas for visiting rights had been rejected.

  “Has he been convicted of anything?” Martha asked.

  “He hasn’t even been granted a trial,” said Mildred. “Do you think you could ask your father to intercede on his behalf? His sister is one of my favorite students and a dear friend. You’ve met her—Sara Weitz.”

  Martha searched her memory and conjured up the image of a petite, dark-haired, pretty young woman, with expressive hazel eyes, luminous skin, and light brown hair. “Sure, I remember. She seemed like a sweet girl, smart too. I liked her.”

  “Then will you help?”

  “If Sara’s brother was an American, I’m sure my father would pull out all the stops,” she said, hesitant. “But since Natan is a German citizen, I don’t think the embassy can intervene.”

  Mildred’s face fell. “I see.”

  “Not to worry,” said Martha. “Even if the embassy can’t get involved, I know someone else who might, as a special favor to me.”

  As soon as Mildred left, Martha phoned the offices of the Regierungspräsident of Cologne, 580 kilometers west of Berlin in the Rhineland. Her call was put through to newly appointed administrative president Rudolf Diels so quickly that she briefly indulged in the flattering notion that her name was on a short list of intimate friends for whom his secretaries had been instructed to interrupt all other work. When Martha asked Rudolf to come to Berlin to see her as soon as possible, he agreed to meet her the next day.

  Rudolf had once been chief of the Gestapo, but he had been removed from office in April after his superiors decided he was not ruthless enough to suppress the SA. Two months later, he narrowly escaped losing his life in Hitler’s bloody purge after Reichstag president Hermann Göring, a close friend, had warned him that enemies were conspiring against him. Rudolf had fled to Switzerland, where he remained for several weeks until passions cooled. Upon his return to Germany, he served briefly as deputy police president of Berlin until he was appointed Regierungspräsident of Cologne. Though he had been knocked down a few rungs in the Nazi hierarchy, he remained very powerful, for he possessed influential friends, a vast intelligence network, and files of incriminating evidence on his political enemies, entrusted to an associate in Zurich who had orders to publish if Rudolf met with foul play.

  The following evening, Martha arrived at the rooftop club of the Eden Hotel to find Rudolf waiting for her at their favorite table. Most of the other tables were occupied by businessmen in expensive suits, Nazis in full regalia, and ladies in gorgeous dresses and sparkling jewelry. Couples danced as Oskar Joost’s orchestra played a lively fox-trot, drowning out the fine patter of rain on the adjustable glass roof overhead.

  Martha saw the maître d’ at Rudolf’s side, bending deferentially to better hear his confidential instructions, but he was otherwise alone. Although none of the guests openly stared, Rudolf nonetheless commanded the room, as if a dark energy radiated out from him, evoking tension and wariness in those within its range. Crossing the room to join him, Martha felt anew the pull of his charisma and the dark beauty of his scarred face. Once she had sat on his lap and kissed his scars, one by one, as he wryly explained how he had earned them fighting duels years before, when he was a hotheaded student proving his manhood to other, equally hotheaded schoolmates.

  Rudolf rose with sinuous grace, kissed her hand, and guided her gracefully into a chair adjacent to his. “What a great pleasure it is to see you again,” he said as he seated himself. “You are as exquisite as I remember.”

  His smooth baritone sent an enticing shiver up her neck, but she dared not be tempted. “Oh, come on,” she said lightly. “It hasn’t been that long since we last met.”

  “It was before you went on your tour of the Soviet Union.” He studied her, smiling faintly. “Did you find communism in practice as impressive as in theory?”

  “It met my expectations,” she said, offering a little shrug. Her departure had been covered widely in the press, and many had interpreted it as a public declaration of her opposition to the Nazi regime. They were not wrong, but whether Rudolf saw it that way or believed, as her parents did, that she had gone imp
ulsively out of starry-eyed infatuation for Boris, she could only guess.

  “Tepid praise,” said Rudolf. “Are you still seeing the Russian?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Yes, I know,” he acknowledged. “As for myself, I rarely see Vinogradov these days.”

  “I suppose not. I understand things have become rather chilly between Moscow and Berlin since the Night of the Long Knives.” Martha had seen for herself that few German officials attended parties at the Soviet embassy anymore. Nazi agents posted outside the consulate kept a watchful eye on all who came and went, noting license plate numbers and the frequency and duration of visits.

  “Chilly?” Rudolf shook his head, amused. “Hitler and Stalin do not see eye to eye on everything, but there is no reason why they should not continue to cooperate on matters of mutual interest.”

  They paused as the waiter approached bearing an excellent bottle of champagne and a silver dish of ripe, plump strawberries, his demeanor betraying a hint of terror that he had either arrived too soon and had interrupted an important moment, or had not arrived promptly enough. As he poured, Martha’s eyes met Rudolf’s and she smiled, pleased that he remembered her tastes. She almost regretted that things had not worked out between them. If not for Boris, she might be tempted to give him another try.

  When the waiter departed, Martha nibbled a strawberry and sipped her champagne, sighing with pleasure as the orchestra struck up a buoyant swing tune. “We should dance later,” she said, watching other couples circling the dance floor. “After we finish this bottle. Do you still prefer slow dances?”

  “Is that why you asked to meet me, so we could dance?”

  “No, but now that I’m here, it seems like a fine idea.”

  He smiled, his gaze penetrating. “Are we here to discuss German and Soviet relations? Perhaps you’re gathering intelligence for your father.”

  She was so surprised she laughed. “That’ll be the day.” She toyed with her glass, resisting the temptation to drain it in one gulp. “I’m here on a personal matter.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Personal?” he echoed lightly, deftly infusing the word with countless delicious possibilities.

  She nodded. “A favor for a friend.”

  Briefly she explained the situation, deliberately nonchalant, as if it were all a simple mistake that could easily be sorted out, with no harm done and no hard feelings afterward. Rudolf listened without comment as she spoke, his expression one of polite interest, as if she were describing a rather ordinary shopping excursion or the weather. She knew him, though, and she knew his mind was working swiftly in the depths, though not a ripple betrayed him on the surface.

  “What is this Herr Weitz to you?” he asked when she finished, refilling her glass. “A new lover?”

  She leaned forward to take her glass in hand, teasing him with a glimpse of décolletage. “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, you needn’t be. I’ve never met him. He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Then why should you care what becomes of him? He’s just another Jew journalist, no one of any consequence.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be any bother to release him.” She took another strawberry and closed her eyes as she savored a bite, her knee brushing Rudolf’s beneath the table. “Honestly, I don’t care about this fellow, but I do care about my friend, and she’s distraught. Can’t you pull some strings?”

  “He broke the law.”

  “You don’t really know that, do you? He hasn’t even had a trial.” Martha shook her head, frowning in feigned bewilderment. “Isn’t that illegal? It sure is in the States.”

  Rudolf smiled, amused. “We are not in the States.”

  “Darling, I know that if you said the word, he could walk out of that camp tonight.”

  “And if every prisoner with an alluring advocate is permitted to walk out of prison before serving their sentences . . . ?”

  “Then you might have to shut down those camps, which might not be such a bad thing, since I hear they’re pretty horrible.” She sipped her champagne, enjoying the bubbling warmth as it spread through her. “You just admitted that you still find me alluring.”

  “That is hardly a secret.”

  She set down her glass and reached for his hand. “Tell me you’ll see what you can do.”

  He sighed and interlaced his fingers through hers. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And say that you’ll dance with me.”

  “I will.” He inclined his head toward the bandstand. “The next slow song.”

  “Naturally.” Resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her free hand, she smiled dreamily at the orchestra. “What is this song? ‘When man something something—’”

  “Wenn man sucht wird man finden,” Rudolf corrected. “When one seeks, one will find.”

  “Do you believe that’s true?”

  “It depends. What one finds is often not what one had sought.” He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. “When you tire of your Russian boyfriend, perhaps you will seek me.”

  “Darling, you know I can’t. You’re married.”

  “That never bothered you before.”

  “Maybe I’ve mended my ways.”

  “Then honor compels me to warn you that Vinogradov is married too, and he has a young child.”

  “Yes, I know. A daughter. We’ve met.” Martha also knew, as apparently Rudolf did not, that Boris was seeking a divorce, and that he and Martha had discussed marriage. She smiled, clasped her other hand around Rudolf’s, and gave him a teasing, contrite pout. “Let’s not worry about the future. Who knows what might happen? We’re here together now. Let’s enjoy now.”

  He raised his glass. “To now.”

  She clinked her glass against his. “To now, and to favors granted.”

  He regarded her wryly over the rim of his glass, and she let her eyes shine teasingly into his.

  A fortnight later, when Mildred came for tea at Tiergartenstrasse 27a, she thanked Martha profusely for whatever she had done on Natan Weitz’s behalf. He had not been released, but his family had been granted weekly visits and were permitted to bring him packages of food, clothing, books, and letters. The Gestapo promised to release him if he confessed, but he continued to proclaim his innocence.

  “Is he innocent?” asked Martha.

  “Sara hasn’t said, and I won’t ask,” said Mildred. “Natan can’t admit to breaking the Editors Law without implicating others at the Berliner Tageblatt. He doesn’t sound like the sort of man who would condemn friends to prison so that he might go free.”

  “Then for his sake I hope he can stick to his story under pressure.”

  “So do I.” Mildred frowned, pensive. “They rushed him through a disgrace of a trial and sentenced him to eighteen months. The family hopes he’ll be permitted to serve it out at Oranienburg where they can easily visit him, but they’re powerless to prevent him from being moved to Dachau or another camp even farther away.”

  Martha nodded, suddenly apprehensive. Was that Rudolf’s doing? Surely he could have freed Natan Weitz if he had chosen to do so. Was he sending Martha a message, a reminder that he could do so much more for Sara’s brother if only Martha were willing to do more for him?

  The weeks passed, and as autumn deepened into winter, Martha saw Boris often and Rudolf not at all, wary of him as she had never been before, thankful for the many kilometers that separated them. She and Boris had begun to discuss marriage more earnestly, and as their intimacy grew, they had become careless about concealing their affection in public. After each slip they vowed to be more discreet, well aware that their affection irritated Boris’s superiors, who wanted him to think of Martha as an asset, not a lover. Seduction was a tool with which Boris was meant to control her. He was not supposed to fall under its spell himself.

  In early December, at a luncheon at the Soviet embassy where the vodka flowed freely and lively music and boisterous laugh
ter filled the halls, Boris rose unsteadily to his feet and raised a toast to her, calling her “Martha, my wife.” More than a little tipsy herself, Martha nevertheless noticed the disapproving looks his superiors exchanged, and she quietly warned him to behave himself, hoping he was sober enough to heed her advice.

  A week later, as Martha and her mother were decorating the embassy for Christmas, Boris came to Tiergartenstrasse 27a and asked to speak to her alone. For a heartstopping moment she thought he was about to go down on one knee and propose, but instead he told her, pale with anguish, that he had been transferred to Moscow.

  “They cannot keep us apart,” he vowed, seizing her hands, kissing her again and again. “No distance can diminish our love.”

  She wanted to believe him, and they parted with promises to arrange rendezvous in France or Switzerland as often as possible. But almost as soon as Boris left Berlin, Martha sensed that their last embraces had been infused with a desperate sorrow, a defiant refusal to accept the inevitable.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  January 1935

  Mildred

  Mildred and Arvid welcomed the New Year in a new flat on the third floor of Woyrschstrasse 16, two blocks south of the Tiergarten and about five kilometers northwest of their old place. For more than two years they had enjoyed living in Neukölln, but the neighborhood had come under increased scrutiny by the Gestapo due to its long-standing hospitality to workers, immigrants, and Communists. When forced to choose between ending their study groups and salons or moving to a more discreet neighborhood, they had bidden a sad farewell to Neukölln.

  Their new flat was small but modern, with a spacious front room, a galley kitchen, an en suite bath, and a balcony with just enough room for a table and two chairs. There were two bedrooms, but when Mildred and Arvid set up the smaller one as an office, they made none of the usual optimistic predictions that it would make a fine nursery someday. After more than eight years of marriage, countless attempts, and fleeting hopes and crushing disappointment, Mildred could no longer bear to arrange her home or her life around a dream that seemed unlikely to be fulfilled.