As for Dr. Murphy, he was intelligent, skilled, and as deft with German as he was English, and fluent in French and Italian as well. In conversations over a great many lunches, he revealed an impressive knowledge of science, art, and literature. Sometimes Mrs. Murphy and Daphne joined them for coffee breaks or to help sort documents and organize files, but it was usually just Dr. Murphy and Greta from morning to night in the parlor, in the study, or at the kitchen table, writing, revising drafts, and debating the best phrase for a particular concept.
It was absorbing, grueling, important work, but it did not come without conflict. It took a few weeks, but Greta eventually realized that the cause of Dr. Murphy’s unexplained illness was alcohol. He always appeared perfectly sober when his wife was around, but when she was abroad visiting family and friends in County Cork, Greta would arrive in the morning to find him already intoxicated. And yet he concealed it well, never drinking in front of her and Daphne or producing inferior work. Often Greta and Daphne conferred worriedly about what, if anything, they should do, if they should confront him respectfully, if they should tell Mrs. Murphy. In the end they reluctantly concluded that Mrs. Murphy surely already knew, and if Dr. Murphy could refrain from drinking when she was present, he must still be in control. So they said nothing and pretended not to notice his bloodshot eyes, the faint slurring of his consonants. Greta found silence and pretense deeply unsatisfying, but she did not know what else to do.
Their frequent disagreements about the text, on the other hand, were impossible to ignore. Dr. Murphy prided himself on his eloquence, and with good reason, for Greta herself envied his ability to turn a phrase. But it irritated her when he would return a page to her, one he had written and she had painstakingly edited, with complaints that she had altered it too much.
“You’ve coarsened the language,” he protested, pointing to one phrase and then another.
“No, I restored its original roughness,” she retorted. “You polished it too much, made it too pretty.”
“But this is vulgar!”
“Yes, exactly as it was in Hitler’s original.”
On other occasions, as he read over her drafts, he would shake his head and mutter under his breath until she clenched her teeth in irritation as she awaited his verdict. “You have to do this over,” he would say, indignant. “It borders on incoherence.”
“Just like the source,” she replied sharply. “The readers should see for themselves how convoluted his arguments are. It’s wrong—reprehensible, even—to make him seem more rational than he is. That’s Goebbels’s job, not mine.”
In those moments she knew Dr. Murphy was just as annoyed with her as she was with him. Sometimes he would listen to her and let something that offended his standards for good English stand, but ultimately it was his book and his name that would be on the cover, and he had the last word.
Greta chose her battles wisely and stood firm when she knew the integrity of the work depended upon it. She won more arguments than she lost.
The work continued throughout the autumn and into the winter. As Germany’s Jews found their lives increasingly constricted, as Protestant pastors were arrested for protesting the Aryan Laws, as Jehovah’s Witnesses were rounded up and sent to concentration camps, Greta wrote, edited, and revised with greater urgency. Nothing she would ever write would be more important than this.
They had to make the truth known, the truth that no one in England or America wanted to believe, the truth that Hitler’s Games had obscured. And time was running out.
Chapter Thirty-seven
December 1936–January 1937
Sara
Dieter had played such a small role in what had emerged as the most important aspects of Sara’s life that when he was finally, truly gone, her days passed almost as they always had, unchanged but for the small knot of pain and anger that tightened in her chest whenever a stray thought drifted his way.
It was a small mercy that this happened less often as time went by.
She knew she was better off without someone so ethically malleable. She also knew that she was fortunate to have discovered Dieter’s fatal flaw before they married rather than afterward. The truth was she grieved the loss of her doctorate more.
Sara had taken Mildred’s advice and had assembled the necessary documents so she could transfer to a university abroad, eventually, someday. She continued to study and work on her dissertation, which was nearly complete, and she also began a new research project, an analysis of female archetypes in the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Increasingly, however, she filled her hours assisting Natan with his investigative journalism, meeting with the study group, and surreptitiously distributing Greta’s leaflets on campus and in nearby cafés and bookshops frequented by students, where thanks to her age she could easily blend in, not only as a student but as an Aryan. No actual living person resembled the caricatures of Jews in Nazi posters, and Sara’s light brown hair and hazel eyes had thus far rendered her immune to the hostile, suspicious, lingering looks her brother often drew with his dark hair and eyes and olive complexion.
Often she felt an ache of loss when she strolled through the University of Berlin campus, the venerated ground that had once felt like home to her but had cast her out. The administrators could prevent her from sitting for her exams and defending her dissertation, but as long as she could pass for a student, she would keep coming back.
She was absolutely certain that the group’s illicit flyers and pamphlets were essential to bringing down the Reich. The uninformed and uncertain people of Germany must be made aware of the horrors of fascism. The ambivalent and reluctant had to be warned that the same tactics used to persecute the Jews, Communists, and Roma could be turned upon them next. The antifascists who felt increasingly isolated and powerless needed to know that they were not alone. And the oppressed must be reassured that they had allies even within the country that had disowned them.
Her parents had no idea how she spent her days. They knew she kept up with her studies and helped Natan, but otherwise they did not ask her to account for her time. Perhaps they respected that she was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. Perhaps they figured whatever she did was fine, as long as she wasn’t moping around the house weeping over Dieter’s old letters.
Once her mother asked if she had considered finding a job. “I’d take one if I could find anything suitable,” Sara replied truthfully. “Everything I’ve trained for is barred to me.”
She was a Jew and she was a woman. The Reich did not want her in the workforce. In fact, they did not want her anywhere. They wanted her not to be.
Questions about her future plans came almost exclusively from her mother, as well as from Amalie, whose every letter included a heartfelt plea to come for a visit and stay as long as she liked. Sara was tempted. Switzerland was beautiful, she missed her darling nieces, and Geneva boasted an excellent university where she might be able to complete her doctorate. Although she demurred, she held on to that possibility like a gold coin tucked safely away in a pocketbook for emergencies. For now, she had important work to do in Germany.
Sara’s father cared as much as her mother did about her future, but he was distracted by serious matters at work and accepted her assurances that she was fine with a nod and an absentminded pat on the shoulder. Since Gleichschaltung had begun years before, the Nazis had imposed the Aryanization of Jewish-owned businesses with increasing force. At Jacquier and Securius Bank, one Jewish partner who had been with the firm since 1919 had been forced out, and those who remained had been ordered to accept two Aryan investors as majority stakeholders. Mr. Panofsky retained his title and salary, but he had been barred from performing his managerial duties and had to answer to the Aryan newcomers. “It would be a blow to any man’s pride,” Sara had overheard her father tell her mother, “but what else can he do? His employees and clients depend upon him to keep the bank open.”
In recent months, the struggle to keep the bank solvent had
been taking a toll on the partners and managers. Although the economy was improving, many of their employees and customers suffered under the increasing restrictions placed upon Jews, and nervous investors were moving their funds elsewhere. According to Sara’s father, Mr. Panofsky still believed his family would be safe from Nazi persecution as long as Ambassador Dodd’s family remained his tenants, but beyond the gates of Tiergartenstrasse 27a, the ground was steadily eroding beneath them.
Sara understood that the Weitz family depended upon Mr. Panofsky and the bank, not only for her father’s livelihood but for the intangible benefit of his association with the American ambassador. Now, as Mr. Panofsky’s position seemed less tenable day by day, she felt that small measure of protection slipping away. She wondered if it had ever truly existed, or if that was just a story they had told themselves to quell their increasing dread.
As the end of January drew near, Sara’s father suggested they invite the Panofsky family to join them on a holiday at the Riechmann estate in Minden-Lübbecke. “January thirtieth is their son’s eleventh birthday,” Sara’s father said. “What better way to celebrate than with horseback riding, ice skating, snowshoe walks in the forest, and plenty of fresh air and good food?”
“We could all use some time away from the city,” said Sara’s mother, some of the tension leaving her face. “And Amalie and Wilhelm did ask us to look after things in their absence.”
At first Natan demurred, citing work and other vague obligations, but his parents’ disappointment was so obvious that he fell silent, chagrined. “It won’t be much of a family vacation without you,” said Sara, pressing her advantage, and Natan conceded.
An invitation was sent to the Panofskys, arrangements were made in a series of phone calls with the estate staff, and at the end of January, the two families drove in tandem about 400 kilometers west of Berlin through forests, villages, snow-covered pastures, and dormant fields of barley and alfalfa. Twice they had to pull off the road to allow convoys of military vehicles to pass, presumably on their way to the Rhineland, but those were brief, jarring interludes in an otherwise scenic journey to Wilhelm’s ancestral estate.
Schloss Federle took Sara’s breath away every time she glimpsed it through the trees growing on the banks of the broad encircling moat, ice-choked now but no less a formidable barrier, traversable by a single stone bridge at the foot of a long garden in front of the residence. Although the original castle dated back to the thirteenth century, the residence as it now stood had been constructed around 1780, with significant refurbishments to the interior made just before the Great War. The large main building and two perpendicular wings stood three stories tall and were fashioned of white stone and golden stucco. Curved single-story galleries connected the east and west wings to the main building, facing each other across a long oval garden encircled by the driveway, snow-dusted now, but bursting with lush greenery and colorful, fragrant flowers from spring through autumn. Tall rectangular windows framed by green shutters filled the walls, and teardrop-shaped rust-colored tiles covered the mansard roof and numerous dormers. And yet for all its grandeur, it was warm and welcoming, steadfast and strong.
Several members of the household staff hurried out to greet them as the cars halted before the main entrance. As the footmen carried their luggage indoors and her parents introduced the Panofskys to the housekeeper and butler, Sara turned to admire the view back the way they had come. The day was crisp and clear, and in the distance she could just make out the frosty blur of the Wiehen Hills in the distance. If only Amalie and her family were there, everything would be perfect.
The Panofsky party included Mr. Panofsky, his wife, his silver-haired mother, and the two children—Hans, one day shy of eleven, and his younger sister, Ruth. All was happy chaos as the two families called out cheerful greetings to one another, stretching their legs, inhaling deeply the cold, pine-scented air. The children darted about, leaving tracks in the snow and shrieking with delight, while the adults chatted and looked on indulgently. Sara felt a knot of worry loosen in the pit of her stomach, and as she drank in the familiar, beloved sights of her sister’s home, she was struck by overwhelming relief at the absence of a single swastika or black-clad SS officer. She had not understood how depressed her spirits had become by the ubiquitous presence of Nazi symbols until they no longer obstructed her view.
“It is so quiet and peaceful here,” marveled Mrs. Panofsky. “The perfect remote country retreat.”
“And yet we’re only about one hundred twenty kilometers from the Dutch border,” said Sara’s father. “In ninety minutes, we could be in the Netherlands.”
Mr. Panofsky, his wife, and his mother nodded thoughtfully.
Eventually the adults grew too cold to linger outdoors, so when the children wore themselves out from scrambling through snowdrifts, they all headed inside to warm themselves by the fireplace in the great hall before supper. A whirling snowstorm descended while they dined, and afterward, the intermittent scour of snow crystals on the windowpanes followed them as the Weitzes led the Panofskys on a tour of the castle. Hans and Ruth enjoyed the way their voices echoed down the marble halls, and they were very impressed by the suits of armor in the north gallery. Their parents were more interested in the antique Persian rugs, the vast library, and the art collection, not only the portraits of Wilhelm’s illustrious ancestors displayed in gilded frames throughout the public rooms, but the modern paintings and sculptures he and Amalie had acquired on their international travels. “Magnificent,” proclaimed Mr. Panofsky as he examined a cubist painting of musical instruments. “Picasso, I assume?” Natan confirmed that it was.
As they went along, Sara shared some of the fascinating stories her brother-in-law had told her about the history of various rooms, distinctive antiques, and illustrious or notorious visitors from the past. In the conservatory, when her gaze turned to the beautiful, gleaming black Steinway with some of Amalie’s sheet music still poised upon the stand, she felt a pang of longing for her sister so acute that tears sprang into her eyes. It was painful and strange to be in Amalie’s home without her, paradoxically drawing her closer and emphasizing the vast distance between them. When she heard her mother’s soft sigh and felt her touch upon her shoulder, Sara knew she felt the same.
After the tour, they returned to the great hall for stories and games before Mrs. Panofsky put the children to bed. Then it was time for Kaffee before the blazing hearth, as well as schnapps for those who wanted something stronger. They toasted their absent benefactors, Amalie and Wilhelm, and the conversation turned from fond reminiscences about happier occasions they had spent together at Schloss Federle to recent news the young family had sent from Geneva.
“Switzerland is lovely,” said Mrs. Panofsky, with a significant glance for her husband. “We have friends in Zurich, and your old classmate says his bank in Basel is growing.”
Mr. Panofsky regarded her fondly. “Last week you preferred London.”
“London, Zurich, New York—” Mrs. Panofsky waved a hand. “Whichever city will welcome us, I’ll happily make it our home.”
“Have you decided to emigrate?” asked Sara.
“I didn’t want to spoil our holiday with talk of business,” said Mr. Panofsky reluctantly. “However, since the partners intend to make a public announcement soon, it could do no harm to confide in you now, in appreciation for your hospitality.”
Sara and Natan exchanged wary glances as their father frowned pensively and shifted in his chair. “Nothing you say will leave this room, of course,” he said.
“The Jacquier and Securius Bank cannot continue as it has under the Reich,” said Mr. Panofsky, spreading his hands, letting them fall to his lap. “The partners hope to sell the bank, and if that fails, we’ll liquidate the assets and close our doors.”
“It’s not right that you should have to close an institution that has thrived for more than one hundred years,” said Natan.
“I quite agree,” said Mr. Panofsky.<
br />
“Afterward, yes, we intend to emigrate,” said Mrs. Panofsky, a tremor in her voice. “After restricting ourselves to the attic of our own home for all these years, I’ve simply had enough—” She broke off, and when her husband reached for her hand, she managed an apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to complain. Our arrangement has kept us safe so far, and the Dodds are pleasant people.”
“We understand,” said Sara’s mother kindly. “Your feelings are perfectly reasonable.”
“Liquidating the bank won’t be easy, dear,” said Mr. Panofsky. “Nor will emigration.”
Tears filled Mrs. Panofsky’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “I know.”
They all knew. For a country that wanted to rid itself of Jews, the German government seemed determined to thrust daunting obstacles in the path of those who wanted to go. Jews who intended to emigrate had to relinquish the titles to their homes and businesses and were required to pay staggering emigration taxes. Their personal possessions and financial savings were considered German property and very little could be taken with them. Severe restrictions were placed upon the amount of money that could be transferred from German banks into foreign accounts, and travelers were permitted to carry only ten Reichsmarks with them when they left the country. None of this applied to Wilhelm, as he was Aryan and had not officially emigrated but was merely residing in Switzerland indefinitely, as was a wealthy baron’s prerogative. For the Panofskys, however—and the Weitzes, if they ever chose that path—emigration meant sacrificing homes, livelihoods, and everything they owned and starting over in a new country utterly impoverished.
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