Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Steeling herself, Mildred continued on to her classroom only to find Karl Behrens waiting for her outside the door. “Whatever they accuse you of, deny everything,” he said, his voice low and furious. “We’ll all vouch for what a perfect Nazi Frau you are.”

  “Thank you, Karl,” she murmured, gesturing to the door. “Let’s not arouse suspicions by whispering in doorways.”

  He nodded and preceded her into the room. Feigning serenity, she waited for a few stragglers to take their seats before beginning the evening’s lesson. Her heart thudded with such force she marveled that she could speak at all. One glance at her syllabus would reveal that she taught antifascist literature, and although she did not have her students read banned books—it had become impossible to acquire copies—she discussed several verboten authors in her lectures. But if the informant had accused her in particular, why had the SS not confronted her directly? Why put the entire school through this frightening ordeal—unless it was to terrify them, to turn them against one another to save themselves?

  Forty minutes later, a knock sounded on the door. Before Mildred could answer, Dr. Stecher peered in and asked her to accompany him to his office. “Certainly,” she said, smiling briefly as she turned back to her students. “Emil, would you please lead the class in a discussion of chapter seven?” Emil Kortmann nodded and approached the podium. He was one of her brightest pupils, a member of the school’s English Club as well as her private study group, eminently trustworthy, and less likely than Karl to lead the students in outright revolt.

  On the short walk to Dr. Stecher’s office, the principal betrayed not a single flicker of emotion to indicate what might await her. When they reached his office, he opened the door and gestured for her to enter alone, and he closed it firmly behind her after she did.

  A Gestapo officer sat behind the principal’s desk, his black uniform immaculate, his blue eyes appraising, his dark hair graying at the temples. “Frau Harnack,” he greeted her, glancing at a file lying open on the desktop—her employment records. “Please be seated.”

  She obeyed, back straight, hands clasped in her lap, gaze calm and level.

  “I deeply regret that an accusation of subversion and disloyalty to the Reich has been made against the Abendgymnasium.” His brow furrowed as he studied her. “Do you have anything you wish to disclose?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Are you certain? These are very serious charges.”

  She feigned puzzlement. “I’m not sure how you think I can help you.”

  She half expected him to pull her syllabus from the file, slam it onto the desk, and demand that she explain herself. Instead he regarded her with something resembling sympathy. “I know it isn’t easy to betray the confidences of a friend, but sometimes, for the greater good, it becomes necessary. Don’t you agree?”

  “I suppose on certain occasions it could be.”

  “We have arrived at one of those occasions.” He sat back in Dr. Stecher’s chair. “Frau Harnack, are you aware of any Jews on the faculty?”

  “I—I’m quite sure there are none,” she said. “Several Jewish instructors were dismissed after Easter recess three years ago, and as far as I know, none remain.”

  “You are not yourself Jewish?”

  “No,” she replied, taken aback. “I’m American, as I’m sure you were informed, but my heritage is English.”

  “Dr. Stecher assures me you are entirely Aryan, and I’m inclined to agree.” His eyes narrowed as his gaze took in her blue eyes and blond hair. “You look more Aryan than I do. But appearances can deceive. Can you prove that you are indeed fully Aryan?”

  Mildred’s thoughts raced. “My mother has researched our family genealogy. We were accepted into the Daughters of the American Revolution based upon the records she found. I have copies—”

  “Good. Bring them to Gestapo headquarters tomorrow so we may verify them ourselves.”

  She agreed, and he dismissed her. Hiding her astonishment, she rose on trembling legs and hurried off before he decided to examine her file more carefully. When she returned to her classroom, the discussion immediately broke into a flurry of anxious questions. She tried to offer reassuring yet truthful answers, but she was not sure she succeeded.

  The interrogations were still going on when her last class ended, but the students and all of the faculty who had already been questioned were permitted to leave. Mildred looked for Einhard in the halls but did not see him. It seemed unwise to linger, so she set out for home. Just around the corner out of sight of the Abendgymnasium, she found several colleagues who had ducked into an alley to compare notes. One, a professor of French, had been forced to justify his entire field of study—the inferior language and culture of an inferior people, the SS officer had disparaged it. Another, a history professor, had been sharply rebuked for using an older textbook, one that preceded the Reich and thus did not provide the new official version of German history. All had been ordered to prove that they were of pure Aryan descent.

  “Was anyone arrested?” Mildred asked, glancing over her shoulder and drawing nearer to hear the answer. But they did not know. No one had heard any commotion in the halls redolent of a prisoner dragged off under duress, but that confirmed nothing.

  The following morning, Mildred sorted her genealogy documents, hoping that copies would suffice since her mother had kept the originals. Arvid offered to escort her, but she declined, unwilling for him to miss work or to invite the scrutiny of the Gestapo or the SS. “One Harnack under suspicion is more than enough,” she said lightly, but Arvid’s frown of worry only deepened. In the end he agreed that she should go alone.

  The Gestapo made their headquarters at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, a former art school adjacent to the SS headquarters in the Hotel Prinz Albrecht and a block away from the Prinz-Albrecht-Palais, which housed the SS intelligence service. An aspect of menace seemed to shroud the marble walls and pillared lobby, but she told herself it was only her imagination, not the ghosts of forgotten artists lamenting that their temple of creativity and artistic aspiration had become the lair of fascists. Mildred knew Heinrich Himmler kept an office on the top floor, and as she was directed from a main desk to a smaller office and to meet one particular clerk, curiosity compelled her to watch for him.

  The clerk made her wait in an uncomfortable chair before beckoning her forward to query her about the purpose of her visit and to examine her documents. “Everything appears to be in order,” he finally said, stamping several pages with an official seal. “There’s no question that you’re pure Aryan, although surely you will soon give up teaching and take up the more noble career of motherhood?”

  Pained, Mildred forced a demure smile. “One can only hope.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and told her she was free to go. She waited a moment for him to return her documents, but when it became clear he had no intention of doing so, she inclined her head and departed, hardly daring to believe her ordeal was over, unable to breathe a sigh of relief until she stood outside on the pavement.

  That evening, she arrived early for her first class, anxious to learn what had happened after she had left the Abendgymnasium the previous night. To her relief, she found Einhard in his classroom, still shaken from the interrogation and no wiser than she about what, if anything, the Gestapo had concluded. “If some of our colleagues don’t show up to teach today, I suppose that will tell us something,” he said gloomily, but as best as she could determine from hasty exchanges with other instructors during passing periods, everyone was accounted for.

  After her last class, Mildred longed to hurry home to Arvid, but it was the night for the weekly meeting of the English Club, and they were well into rehearsals for their upcoming production of Richard III. For a brief, blissful two hours, she lost herself in the beauty of Shakespeare’s language and the joy of helping talented, dedicated students bring his timeless drama to life. It was quite late by the time rehearsal ended, but when Mildred left the building with
Emil, Karl, and a few other students who had lingered to discuss their characters, they stepped into a balmy twilight, strangely peaceful and reassuring after the pervasive dread of the past few days.

  The group broke up at the street corner, but Emil was heading in the same direction as Mildred, so they walked along together, chatting about blocking and costumes and whether they ought to risk using real swords in act five. Emil was all for it, Mildred against. “If we use real swords, we may be expected to use real horses too,” she teased as they walked along Tauentzienstrasse toward the Bahnhof Zoo.

  Emil’s face lit up, but before he could reply, a swarm of SS were upon them, as suddenly as if they had risen from hidden fissures in the earth. Instinctively Mildred reached for Emil’s arm, but the black-clad officers swept them and other hapless passersby along before them, a wave cresting toward the UFA Filmpalast. Frantic, Mildred tried to tear herself free, certain they had been caught up in a raid, but when they reached the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the theater, the SS suddenly halted, penning them in.

  “Frau Harnack!” called Emil, struggling to make his way to her side, but just as he reached her, the enormous double doors swung open and Adolf Hitler strode out, surrounded by his usual entourage. A murmur rippled through the crowd and swelled into a roar as all around arms flung out in the Hitlergruss and shouts of “Heil Hitler!” rose to the sky. As the SS shoved the crowd back to clear a path from the door to the Führer’s automobile, his flaccid face and piercing eyes turned to one side and then the other as he accepted the people’s worship, returning their salutes with a rather affected one of his own, his elbow bent at his side, his right hand flung up by his ear, palm facing forward. Almost, Mildred thought fleetingly, as if he were shooing away a persistent fly.

  It was all over in a moment. Hitler climbed into his car and was swiftly driven away with several SS staff cars as escort. “What a historic moment,” an old woman cried, her thin voice rising above the excited hum of the crowd. “How thankful I am to have lived long enough to see our great leader!”

  Emil muttered disparagingly under his breath, but Mildred was shocked into silence as she watched the old woman tremble in tearful ecstasy. Sickened, she turned her gaze to the faces of the people surrounding them. They looked like men and women she might see strolling through the Tiergarten on a Sunday or waiting in a queue at the market or opening a hymnal at church. But now these perfectly ordinary people turned beatific faces toward the departing cars, a feverish light in their eyes. They behaved as if a god had briefly come to earth to walk among mortals, and they, the fortunate few, had witnessed his divine majesty and would never be the same.

  Mildred’s gaze found Emil’s, and she saw her own dismay reflected in his eyes. How could the resistance persuade such devout followers that the Nazis were leading them toward destruction? How could reason overcome such ardent, irrational veneration?

  A week later, Dr. Stecher called an all-school assembly.

  There, trembling and watery-eyed, he bravely announced that although the accusations of seditious teaching and disloyalty to the Reich had not been proven, the Gestapo had decided to close the Abendgymnasium. The students’ dismay and outrage struck the hapless principal with such force that he stepped backward. Raising his hands for silence, he shouted back empty reassurances that they would receive full credit for their incomplete courses and assistance transferring to universities and trade schools. It was only as she was clearing out her desk that Mildred learned the faculty would receive no severance pay, no help finding new jobs, nothing.

  “Why would they close the school when they found no evidence of subversion?” Mildred lamented to Arvid. “The Nazis boast about creating jobs and lowering unemployment, and the Abendgymnasium helps students move on to better careers and higher education. Why shut us down when we’re accomplishing work they themselves insist is important?”

  “The Abendgymnasium was founded by the Social Democrats,” said Arvid. “Anything created by the previous administration, however beneficial to the German people, must be swept away.”

  “It’s stupid and wrong,” said Mildred, close to tears.

  Arvid brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her, but the gesture gave her no comfort.

  The Gestapo could shut down her school, but they could not prevent her from meeting elsewhere with her students. She would find another job—something, somehow—but she was a teacher, and she would never relinquish her responsibility to her students. As long as they wanted to learn, she would teach them.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  June–August 1936

  Martha

  Martha relished the thrill of athletic competition as much as anyone, but it was difficult not to regard the Berlin Olympics cynically as a massive state-sponsored public relations campaign. The new facilities included a magnificent art deco track and field stadium with room for one hundred thousand spectators, a natatorium for ten thousand, and a state-of-the-art 130-acre Olympic Village for housing the athletes. Arranged in the shape of a map of Germany, it boasted houses fitted with the latest modern conveniences, a post office, a bank, and training facilities including a 400-meter oval track and a regulation size indoor swimming pool. The director of construction, Captain Wolfgang Fürstner, had promised that these were the most excellent accommodations ever provided for Olympic athletes. From what Martha had seen, she would be hard pressed to disagree.

  The ten-mile road connecting the Alexanderplatz to the Olympic complex just north of Berlin was lavishly adorned with banners and flags bearing the swastika and the Olympic rings. Whenever Martha drove along it, she had the strange sensation of participating in a caesar’s triumphal procession in ancient Rome. If only someone would assign a staff officer to follow Hitler around whispering, “Remember you are mortal.”

  The Olympiastadion and the Via Triumphalis were the most impressive refurbishments Hitler had ordered in honor of the Games, but they were hardly the only ones. For months, conscripted workers had remade nearly every visible surface of Berlin, painting houses, patching roads, restoring decrepit railway stations, banishing litter, pruning and polishing as required. It seemed to Martha that even the oldest cobblestone streets gleamed as if they had been swept and scrubbed.

  The economy continued to improve steadily, but more important to Hitler was the appearance of prosperity. Pamphlets were distributed to every household encouraging citizens to grow flowers rather than vegetables in their gardens and window boxes. Vacant shops and offices on main thoroughfares were leased at significantly below-market cost, with additional subsidies available so that proprietors could spruce up their new storefronts. Unsightly Roma camps were demolished overnight, although none of Martha’s Nazi acquaintances would tell her what had become of the Roma themselves. Then, in the last few weeks before foreign tourists would descend upon Berlin, familiar tokens of the new Germany began quietly disappearing. The ubiquitous signs in store windows declaring “Juden unerwünscht” were removed. Newsstand racks reserved for the rabidly antisemitic newspaper Der Stürmer were refilled with foreign papers. Many of the same books that the Nazis had thrown onto the pyres returned to bookstore shelves. Posters announcing the Nuremberg Laws and other regulations stripping Jews of their civil rights were torn down, every trace of paste and paper scrubbed from the brick.

  “Germany primps for the tourists like a debutant for her coming out,” Martha remarked to her mother one afternoon as they were shopping on the Kurfürstendamm.

  “No amount of fresh makeup can conceal such gross disfigurement,” her mother replied, an edge to her voice. “I’ll believe in the Nazis’ Olympic spirit of peace and fellowship when they close the concentration camps and send the prisoners home to their families, and not a moment before.”

  It was her mother’s public vehemence rather than her beliefs that took Martha by surprise. Her mother and Bill had been skeptical of the Nazis from the very beginning, while Martha’s father was suspending judgment and Mar
tha was enamored with their noble revolution, or whatever she had called it. Her cheeks flushed with shame when she remembered how enthralled she had been by the glamour and spectacle, how she had once cheerfully echoed every “Heil Hitler” sent her way.

  Now the Germans were rehearsing their best behavior for when the world came to Berlin for the Games. Martha hardly dared hope their rehabilitation would be permanent, but at least for the moment the humiliation and abuse of the Jews had significantly diminished.

  A few days before the opening ceremonies, as Martha was reading on the terrace, Fritz approached her to announce a visitor. His prim, sour expression kindled a memory, and for an electrifying moment she thought Boris had returned. Setting her book aside, she leapt up from her chair and followed Fritz into the house, quickly outpacing him on the way to the green reception room.

  A large, dark-haired man stood at the window, his back to her, engrossed in the view of the Tiergarten.

  “Why, Thomas Wolfe,” Martha exclaimed, swiftly crossing the room to greet him. “What a wonderful surprise. Are you here for the Olympics or for me?”

  “Both.” Thomas swept her up in an embrace and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “And also because Herr Hitler won’t let me take the royalties for my German translations out of the country. I had to come to Germany to spend them.”

  “I can certainly help you with that. Germany isn’t as much fun as it used to be, but we can still find good champagne, extravagant dinners, and great music to dance to.”

  “So it’s not all military marches, Wagner, and the ‘Horst Wessel Lied’?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I’d be happy to indulge you.” With a playful grin, he bent low, his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched. “And what would I get in return?”

  She smiled, amused. “Name your price.”

  “Tickets to the Games.”