Suddenly, a commotion near the top of the grand staircase heralded the arrival of the guest of honor. From across the hall Greta watched as the towering, dark-haired American shook hands with the Dodds. As his German publisher guided him through a swiftly gathering crowd of admirers, Thomas Wolfe tried to shake all the hands thrust at him, smiling and thanking his well-wishers, appearing somewhat embarrassed and yet still enjoying the attention. He had to be around six feet five inches tall, with rich, alert brown eyes, a boyish mouth, a small nose, and rounded cheeks. A moment later, Martha was at his side, her head barely reaching his shoulder as she tilted her face quite far back in order to grin up at him. Something in the proprietorial way she rested her hand upon his arm told Greta that Wolfe was yet another one of Martha’s conquests, or soon would be.
Only after observing the author from a distance for a while did Greta give in to the intrigue of his celebrity and introduce herself. She had read Look Homeward, Angel and his most recent book, Of Time and the River, in the original English, so they had a brief, pleasant chat about his work, mostly Greta complimenting his writing and Wolfe accepting her compliments. Her strongest impressions of him came later, growing out of what she overheard him say to others. He was affable and courteous, even when the crowd pressed too close, and he modestly deflected the unceasing flow of compliments Greta thought he honestly deserved. She quite liked him for that, and was amused by the way his thoughts often seemed to tumble from him in an unrestrained, disorderly flow. He took an immediate liking to Mildred, which to Greta suggested excellent judgment. She was flattered when she overheard him confide to Ambassador Dodd that he considered the Germans to be the kindest, most warmhearted, and most honorable people of all he had met in Europe
And yet other remarks left her feeling disappointed and repulsed. He expressed too much enthusiasm for what he described as the strength, vigor, and “noble spirit of freedom” of Nazi Germany. When Bella Fromm, visibly taken aback, reminded him of the Aryan Laws, Wolfe tossed back a drink, grinned, and said, “Seems to me the Nazis are simply showing the normal hostility toward the Jews.”
Some of his listeners grinned, but far more frowned in bewilderment or disapproval. Disgusted, Greta turned and left the room, certain that she would never again be able to enjoy his novels as she once had.
When she and Mildred met the following Saturday morning in the Tiergarten, they compared notes and found that they had reached strikingly similar opinions about most of the German guests. After they narrowed down the list to those they would approach about the resistance, Greta brought the subject around to the tea’s guest of honor. Mildred too had been dismayed by some of his behavior, especially a callous joke he had made about Jews influencing President Roosevelt’s administration, and his distorted, idealized notion of what Germany had become under Nazi rule. “His naïve enthusiasm reminds me of Martha’s when she first arrived,” Mildred said. “After she lived here awhile, her eyes opened and she saw the Reich for the horror it is. I can only hope Thomas Wolfe will undergo the same transformation.”
“That’s not likely to happen if he spends his entire visit attending parties and meeting fans,” said Greta, dubious. “That would have to be a whirlwind of change in a very brief time.”
“That’s true. He’s setting sail for New York at the end of June.” Mildred allowed a small conspiratorial smile. “He’s promised me a lengthy, detailed, thoroughly honest interview before he departs.”
“Mildred, that’s wonderful,” Greta exclaimed. Switching to English, she said, “That’s quite a—what’s the phrase?—a scoop.”
Mildred laughed. “Yes, it is—or it will be, if I can publish it.”
“I’m very happy for you,” said Greta sincerely. No one more deserved a bit of publishing luck than Mildred. As Goebbels’s Reichskulturkammer had tightened its chokehold upon the publishing industry, her “Brief Reviews” column had been canceled and permission to publish scholarly articles had become increasingly difficult to obtain. An exclusive interview with an acclaimed author whose works passed Nazi restrictions and sold exceptionally well in Germany could create new opportunities for her—and the income would surely be gratefully received.
Later that month, Adolf Hitler addressed the Reichstag, speaking earnestly of Germany’s desire for peace, understanding, and justice for all. Hitler repudiated the very thought of war—a senseless horror that would accomplish nothing—and insisted that Germans had no interest whatsoever in conquering other peoples. “The principal effect of every war is to destroy the flower of the nation,” he declared as he offered thirteen specific proposals to secure peace in Europe. “Germany needs peace and desires peace!”
In the days that followed, newspapers around the world tentatively praised Hitler’s overtures, although several European leaders asked for reassurances regarding certain military matters. Hitler’s replies apparently diminished their fears, but although tensions eased, the tone of the foreign press remained watchful and wary.
“Of course Hitler wants peace,” said Adam. “He wants peace to buy himself time to prepare for war. And I think he’ll get it. The world wants peace so desperately that they’d prefer to be lulled into complacency than to challenge him.”
Greta hoped Adam was wrong, but she feared he was right. World leaders, men who ought to be more skeptical, clung to what Hitler said and ignored what he did. Even as the Führer promised peace, the Reich government passed laws requiring air raid shelters to be constructed in all public buildings. Why would he squander time and money on bunkers if he did not expect to need them?
Chapter Thirty-one
June–July 1935
Mildred
Thomas Wolfe had brought a whirlwind of excitement to Berlin, and Mildred, longing for a respite from the steadily worsening constraints of the Reich, had allowed herself to be swept up in it. Wolfe had granted her a lengthy interview at the St. Pauli bar on the Rankestrasse, unabashedly candid as he described his creative process, his feelings about the South of his childhood and the present day, his opinion of other authors, and his collaboration with his editor, Max Perkins. In the days that followed, on several long walks through the Tiergarten, the paths shaded by abundant foliage and the air fragrant with masses of pansies in full bloom, he confided in her more deeply about his writing, his fears, and his childhood.
“I was made to believe that whatever I did that didn’t put money into my pocket was wrong,” he said, a corner of his mouth turning wryly. “Even today I feel that if I didn’t make any money on my books I’d believe I was a failure. But I know that isn’t a good thing. The best things are not done for money. Don’t you believe that?”
Mildred agreed, but she vehemently disagreed when he praised the National Socialists, and with equal frankness told him what life was really like in Hitler’s Germany—the oppression, the stifling of writers and artists, the protestations of peaceful intent belied by the ongoing militarization of the country. He listened willingly, unafraid to challenge his own opinions, and eventually acknowledged that he may have misjudged the Nazis and would be more skeptical in the future.
But his visit was not all deep, heartfelt conversations on long, companionable strolls. Martha escorted Wolfe all around Berlin on a merry, boisterous dash of parties, dinners, teas, newspaper interviews, radio broadcasts, photo shoots, lectures, and all-night drinking bouts. Mildred and Bill often accompanied them, but it soon became evident that Martha and Wolfe were spending a great deal of time together in private as well.
“Wolfe’s practically moved into the embassy,” Bill grumbled as he and Mildred sat observing the towering author and his petite, flirtatious partner make a comically unlikely pair on the dance floor. “You know how Martha is with a new conquest. Our parents look the other way but I’m sure our mother is distressed. I wish Martha would settle down.”
“With whom? Thomas Wolfe?” Mildred watched them dance, dubious. “Are they in love?”
“I think they imagine themsel
ves to be. Don’t tell Martha I said this, but I think her heart still belongs to the Russian. She and Wolfe fight a lot, with shouting and tears on both sides. Martha accuses Wolfe of drinking too much and wasting his talent. Wolfe doesn’t know why it’s any of her business, since they’ve only just met.”
“They must shout rather loudly for you to pick up all that.”
“That they do,” said Bill shortly. “Never mind. This is just a fling. It won’t last.”
Mildred was quite sure it would not, and not only because Wolfe planned to stay in Germany a mere six weeks. In the meantime, if a brief, torrid affair helped Martha get over the heartbreak of losing Boris, Mildred supposed some good might come of it.
When Wolfe left Berlin at the end of June, he seemed to take all the color and light and breath of their literary society with him. In his absence, Mildred transformed his abundant revelations into a two-part interview for the Continental Post and an essay for the Berliner Tageblatt, which received considerable acclaim and provoked both admiration and jealousy from the American press corps. As Greta had predicted, the interviews turned out to be a wonderful literary scoop.
But as the heady warmth of her journalistic triumph faded, Mildred felt restless and discouraged. New regulations out of Goebbels’s Reichskulturkammer held editors responsible for anything disparaging to the Reich that passed through their offices, so they had become increasingly anxious, excessively wary of putting into print anything that might offend. “The only safe topics anymore are the weather, gardens, and butterflies,” Mildred complained to Martha, knowing a fellow writer would commiserate.
Martha sympathized, but she was not constrained in the same suffocating way. Lately other pleasures had distracted her from writing, but she hinted that she was working on a memoir. “It’s inspired by my experiences in Berlin, but it’s no mere travelogue,” she once said, smiling coyly. When Mildred nervously asked how much she might divulge about her friends’ secrets, Martha quickly assured her that although Mildred would definitely recognize herself in it, she could alter certain details so that no one else would. She did not intend to publish her book until after her family returned to the United States, when she would be free from the restrictions of both her father’s position and the Nazi censors.
Reluctant to squander precious time writing articles and literary criticism that were unlikely to see print, Mildred focused her attention on her translation of Lust for Life, which was nearly complete and scheduled for publication in less than a year. One afternoon in mid-July, she had just finished a particularly challenging chapter when Arvid returned home from the Economics Ministry, his expression pensive.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, quickly shutting the door and locking it behind him.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps this will turn out to be a momentous day.” He hung up his hat and took her in his arms for a lingering kiss. “An old friend met me as I was on my way home from work, and not by chance.”
“Who?”
“Alexander Hirschfeld.”
Mildred searched her memory. “The Soviet official who advised ARPLAN years ago?”
“He’s first secretary of the Soviet embassy now.” Slipping an arm around her shoulders, Arvid led her into the front room and to a seat beside him on the sofa. “He wants to meet with me to discuss the possibility of helping the Soviet Union bring down the Reich.”
“Help them how?”
“I assume by providing them with intelligence, the same economic information you’ve been passing on to Ambassador Dodd ever since I started working at the ministry.”
“But that’s different,” said Mildred. “I’m giving information to the Americans, to my own country.”
“I understand, but the Americans don’t seem to be doing anything with it. Ambassador Dodd tells you he passes my reports on to the State Department—”
“And I believe him.”
“I do too, but apparently once the information arrives in Washington, it’s promptly shelved and forgotten.” Arvid took her hand. “I know you suspect Stalin is no better than Hitler, but I have no reason to distrust Alexander Hirschfeld. If providing him with economic intelligence will help bring down the Reich, I must do it.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to meet with him, if only to find out what he has in mind.”
Arvid raised her hand to his lips, then pulled her close into an embrace. “I’m glad you agree,” he murmured, kissing her cheek and the hollow behind her earlobe.
The two men met the following evening in the Tiergarten. At the Abendgymnasium, Mildred could hardly keep her mind on her lectures as she imagined Arvid and Hirschfeld strolling the forested paths, conferring quietly, avoiding strangers. There was no question why the Soviets would be eager for the proprietary financial information only Arvid could give them, but how would they use that intelligence to bring down the Third Reich? Would they expect to seize control of Germany afterward? And if Arvid became their informant, what could they do to ensure his safety? It had never occurred to Mildred to ask the same questions of the American embassy. She knew Ambassador Dodd was a man of indisputable honor and integrity, and she had great faith in the progressive, democratic administration he represented. She could not say the same for Alexander Hirschfeld, whom she barely knew and whose government lied to foreign observers and its own citizens with impunity.
After her last class, Mildred hurried home only to find their flat empty. She made tea and tried to settle down to grading student essays, but she often caught herself staring into space wondering where Arvid was, or pacing out to the balcony to search the sidewalks below for him.
When he finally came home, there was an eager light in his eyes, and he seemed both invigorated and wary. He had agreed to provide the Soviets with intelligence from the Ministry of Economics, details about the German economy and currency, Germany’s foreign investments, the national debt, and trade agreements with foreign nations. What he refused to do, despite Hirschfeld’s emphatic requests, was abandon his resistance activities.
“Hirschfeld urged me to break off all contact with German Communists and stop working with the resistance,” he said. “That includes no longer helping Jews. The Soviets insist I’ll be more useful to them if I don’t expose myself to unnecessary dangers.”
“Useful to them?” echoed Mildred. “The point of the resistance is to oust Hitler and save Germany, not to promote the Soviet Union.”
“Exactly. I told Hirschfeld I had no interest in becoming a Soviet spy. My goal is to bring down the Nazis and to help the people they persecute. If giving economic intelligence to the Soviets will help me accomplish that, then I’ll work with them.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to stop helping Jews, or my Communist friends, or anyone else who desperately needs me.”
In the end, Hirschfeld accepted Arvid’s terms. Arvid would be a source, not an agent, but only as long as helping the Soviets also helped the resistance restore democracy to Germany.
Chapter Thirty-two
August 1935
Greta
Steadily and surely, Greta and Adam added threads to the fine web of their resistance network. Soon after the tea for Thomas Wolfe at Tiergartenstrasse 27a, John Sieg agreed to collaborate with them, but he introduced Adam to barely a handful of his comrades in the Communist underground, the better to preserve both circles’ security.
Adam had many contacts of his own among Communist workers, and after appraising their suitability, he approached the most intelligent, reliable, and discreet about joining the resistance. Of the few he invited, only three agreed to join. The others he swore to silence.
By mid-August, Adam had spun out a thread of strong steel to Adolf Grimme, the former prominent Social Democratic politician who had served as the minister of science, art, and education for Prussia until July 1932, when he had been thrown out of office after Chancellor Papen dissolved the Prussian government. Adam and Grimme, who had been friends since their student days, agreed that their networ
k should focus on gathering intelligence and inciting civil disobedience to destabilize the Reich from within. This would unsettle the Nazis and hearten their opponents by proving that Hitler’s control was not absolute.
Greta urged Adam to invite his friend and occasional collaborator Günther Weisenborn to join their group, but the gifted playwright had plunged into a deep depression after his plays and novel were thrown onto the pyres during the Verbrennungstakt two years before. “I don’t think he’s in any condition to help us,” said Adam. “He’s still writing under pseudonyms, but I’m not sure how long he can persist.”
“What a loss to German literature it would be if he set down his pen,” said Greta. But would anyone beyond the arts community even notice? So much brilliance had already been snuffed out. What was one more fading ember when the hearth was buried in ashes?
“When I last spoke with him,” said Adam, “he mentioned that he might go to America.”
“If it’s the only way he can continue to work, perhaps he should.”
Adam thrust his hands into his pockets and scowled. Greta muffled a sigh, stretched out her hand to him, and held it there until he took it and she could pull him close and soothe him with a kiss. He had no patience for anyone who left Germany unless their life was in immediate danger. For Adam, the only courage that mattered was the courage to stay and fight.
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