Resistance Women

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Hitler’s Bluthund,” Hans Coppi muttered, and Mildred felt a chill. The man was Manfred Roeder, a prosecutor known for his cynicism, brutality, and ruthlessness.

  The defendants were led to twelve chairs facing the judge’s table, separated from the witness stand by a wooden railing. They had only just seated themselves when the five judges entered the courtroom. Everyone but the defendants snapped out a crisp Hitlergruss.

  Mildred expected the trial to unfold like the mass trials she had observed with Clara Leiser and Greta years before, but this was a military court, and the pretense of impartiality had been stripped away. She felt increasingly disheartened and afraid as she realized that none of the rights granted to defendants in an American courtroom existed here. As the prosecuting attorney, Roeder directed the proceedings, and he had already submitted to the chamber an indictment for each defendant as well as a report of the evidence. Dr. Schwarz and Dr. Behse, the defense attorneys, were not permitted to examine the evidence, nor were they allowed to consult or advise their clients. There would be no witnesses called for the defense, and when the defendants were questioned, they could respond with only a simple yes or no.

  After those dire revelations came another that flooded Mildred with anguish and frustration: the official account of how their resistance network had been discovered. Their downfall had not come about due to Harro’s recklessness, or Mildred’s recruitment efforts, or Arvid’s refusal to abandon resistance work in favor of gathering intelligence, or Greta’s determination to help her Jewish friends. Instead they had been brought down by Soviet carelessness, a series of mistakes that had led the Gestapo right to them like a branching path of falling dominoes.

  In August 1941, when Moscow had radioed the disastrously imprudent message with their names and addresses to Kent at his station in Brussels, the Germans had intercepted the transmission, just as Mildred and her friends had feared. Although the Abwehr had been unable to decipher the code, they had been alerted to the presence of a Soviet intelligence outpost somewhere in the region and had monitored the airwaves vigilantly thereafter. Three months later, upon returning to Brussels from Berlin, Kent had radioed Harro’s lengthy, detailed reports to Moscow, broadcasting for hours at a time, seven nights in a row, ignoring every safety protocol in order to get the crucial intelligence to Moscow as swiftly as possible. Nazi counterintelligence operatives had easily homed in on the conspicuous signal, had recorded the coded messages, and within a month had traced the broadcast back to its source: the lair of the Rote Kapelle, Red Orchestra, named for the illicit “music” they had broadcast to enemies of the Reich.

  In December 1941, a year earlier almost to the day, Abwehr agents had raided the Brussels outpost, seizing compromising materials and capturing a young Polish cipherer, Sophie Poznanska, as well as the Belgian housekeeper. Poznanska had committed suicide in prison rather than betray her comrades, but the terrified housekeeper had given her interrogators the titles of three books that she had often seen on Poznanska’s desk. On May 17, the Abwehr had found a copy of Der Kurier aus Spanien in a used bookstore, and by the middle of July they had decoded Moscow’s incautious transmission. The Abwehr had immediately placed the Harnacks, the Kuckhoffs, and the Schulze-Boysens under surveillance, watching and waiting, monitoring visitors, mail, and phone calls, patiently observing the suspects and gathering evidence in hopes of capturing the entire network. Eventually they had pounced.

  By the time the first day of hearings was over, Mildred felt exhausted, heartsick, utterly lost, and the trial had only just begun. Parting from Arvid was sheer anguish, but at least she knew she would see him again in the morning.

  Until then, she had his letter, which she read as soon as she returned to the lonely solitude of her cell.

  My most beloved heart,

  If in the last months I have found the strength to be inwardly calm and composed, and if I face what is to come with calm composure, it is due above all to the fact that I feel a strong attachment to the good and beautiful things in this world, and that toward the whole earth I have the feeling that inspires the song of the poet Whitman. As far as people are concerned, it has been those close to me, and especially you, who have embodied these feelings for me.

  Despite all the hardships, I am happy to look back on my life so far. The light outweighed the dark, and our marriage was the greatest reason for this. Last night, I let my thoughts roam through many of the most wonderful moments of our marriage, and the more I thought about them, the more I recalled. It was as if I were looking into a starry sky, in which the number of stars increases the more meticulously one looks. Do you still remember Picnic Point, when we became engaged? I sang for joy early the next morning at the club. And before that: our first serious conversation at the restaurant on State Street? That conversation became my guiding star, and has remained so. In the sixteen years that followed, how often we lay our heads on each other’s shoulders at night when life had made us weary, either yours on mine or mine on yours, and then everything was fine again. I have done this in my thoughts over the past several weeks and will do the same in those to come. I have also thought regularly of you and all my loved ones at eight o’clock each morning and nine o’clock each night. They all think of both of us at the very same time. Do it as well; then we shall know that our feelings of love are flowing between all of us.

  The strain of our work meant that our lives were not easy, and there was no small risk of being overwhelmed, but even so, we remained very much alive as people. This became clear to me during our time on the Grossglockner, and again this year, as we watched the great elk emerge in front of us as we walked through the forest by the sea.

  You are in my heart, and you shall always be within it! My dearest wish is for you to be happy when you think of me. I am when I think of you.

  Many, many kisses! I am holding you close.

  Your A.

  For five days, the defendants were subjected to Roeder’s belligerent and bombastic questioning. Mildred tried not to flinch as he harangued her, and she struggled to remain calm when he repeatedly interrupted her. When Dr. Schwarz argued that she was innocent of wrongdoing because like any good German wife she had simply obeyed her husband’s instructions, Roeder barked out a derisive laugh. To Mildred’s astonishment, several of the judges reacted with frowns or reproving looks, which they concealed so quickly that she was afraid she had imagined them. But for the first time since she had entered the courtroom, she felt a flicker of hope, even though she was deeply afraid of what Dr. Schwarz’s legal strategy might mean for Arvid.

  As the trial unfolded, she endured questioning with as much serene composure as she could muster, and she silently cheered on her companions when they remained dignified, eloquent, and calm in the face of Roeder’s verbal assaults. Only once did she feel truly hopeless, when Libertas broke down on the stand and began shouting that she was innocent, that Harro was to blame for everything, that she wanted a divorce. Harro endured it unflinchingly, but Mildred was sure his wife’s desperate rebuke had wounded him.

  After several grueling days the prosecution rested its case, and on December 19, the verdicts were delivered. For the crimes of preparation for high treason, war treason, undermining military strength, aiding the enemy, and espionage, the court sentenced Arvid, Harro, Libertas, Kurt Schumacher, Elizabeth Schumacher, Hans Coppi, Kurt Schulze, John Graudenz, and Horst Heilmann to death. Herbert Gollnow received the death penalty for disobedience in the field and for disclosing state secrets to the enemy. Erika von Brockdorff was sentenced to ten years at hard labor for keeping a radio that was used to contact the Soviets.

  Lastly, the judges declared that they concurred with Dr. Schwarz that Mildred had acted more from loyalty to her husband than from her own political motives. Despite her exceptional understanding of German literature, as a foreigner, she could not possibly comprehend the implications of disloyalty to the Reich. Therefore, she was sentenced not as a conspirator, but as an accessory to espio
nage, for which she received six years hard labor.

  When Mildred’s sentence was read aloud, Arvid smiled at her, his face radiant with joy. He would die, but she would live.

  “This is an outrage,” Roeder exploded, bolting to his feet. “I demand twelve death sentences! The Führer ordered me to cauterize this sore. He will never approve this decision!”

  The judges made no reply, but rose and withdrew to their chambers. Quickly the twelve defendants embraced one another before the guards could pull them apart. Mildred clung to Arvid, resting her head on his chest and choking out sobs, but although Arvid’s eyes shone with unshed tears, he could not stop smiling. She knew that he had never dared hope that his own life would be spared, but his beloved wife would live, and that was enough. He could go to his own death at peace with his fate knowing that Mildred would survive him, and that one day she would be free.

  On December 20, the day after her trial concluded, Mildred woke to the sound of her cell door opening to find that another prisoner had been assigned to the vacant bunk. She did not know the young woman who entered her cell carrying her few possessions wrapped in a thin blanket, but she recognized her at once, for they had exchanged glances in the prison yard. As soon as the guard closed the cell door, Mildred’s new cellmate set down her bundle and the two women fell into each other’s arms as if they were long-lost friends.

  Her name was Gertrud, and she was a Communist and a member of the resistance awaiting transport to Ravensbrück, a women’s concentration camp in northern Germany. Mildred suspected Gertrud had been assigned to her cell to discourage her from making a second suicide attempt, but that was an unnecessary precaution. She had no intention of taking her own life when it meant the world to her beloved Arvid that she should keep it. Also, as the green police van had taken them away from the courthouse, Arvid had held her hands tightly and had assured her that in the German judicial system, several weeks elapsed between sentencing and execution, and his family had undoubtedly already begun filing the paperwork for his appeal. How could she willingly depart this world while Arvid remained in it?

  Mildred and Gertrud passed the miserable days talking about their lives, about the loved ones they missed and the places they longed to see again, about why they had joined the resistance. They were not permitted books, so they sang and recited poetry to each other. With her precious stub of a pencil, Mildred wrote down from memory some of Goethe’s poems for Gertrud to take with her to Ravensbrück.

  Gertrud’s companionship made the bleak hours more bearable, but every day Mildred sank deeper into despair. She received no mail, no more packages from Arvid’s family, and she confided to Gertrud that she brooded anxiously over how she would endure six years at hard labor.

  She begged the director, the guards, anyone who would listen for news of Arvid. She humbly implored Oberin Weider to allow her to see Arvid for Christmas, but the matron told her, not without pity, that it was impossible. Christmas came and went with nothing to mark the holy season except for a few wistful carols echoing down the prison corridors. She wrote a long, loving letter to Arvid, and others to his family and her own back in America, but she had little hope that they would be posted.

  The New Year began, cold and bleak, but Mildred stoked her courage by reminding herself that Arvid’s family was working fervently on his appeal. Now that the holidays were over and all the bureaucrats had gone back to work, the Harnacks might make swift progress and save his life.

  In early January, when the matron summoned Mildred to her office, her spirits rose. Perhaps this was the good news she had been hoping for since that day in late December when they had thought their fates were sealed. But as soon as she stood before Oberin Weider’s desk and saw the grim sympathy in her eyes, she knew she must steel herself for yet another devastating blow.

  And yet it staggered her when it fell.

  Although Adolf Hitler had signed the document confirming the death sentences of Arvid, Harro, and the others, he had refused to confirm the judgments against her and Erika von Brockdorff.

  Within a fortnight they would face a new trial in a different chamber of the Reichskriegsgericht. This time, the Führer would surely get the verdict he demanded.

  Chapter Sixty

  January–February 1943

  Greta

  In mid-January, nine more members of the Rote Kapelle went on trial before the Reichskriegsgericht, university students and young people who had engaged in widespread anti-Nazi leafleting campaigns but had not provided intelligence to the Soviet Union. Greta had not known any of the nine defendants before her arrest, but in recent weeks she had met several of the resistance women in Alexanderplatz, including the pottery artist Cato Bontjes van Beek and Liane Berkowitz, the nineteen-year-old student who had participated in Harro’s “Nazi Paradise” sticker campaign with Sara Weitz. Liane was six months pregnant; her fiancé, Friedrich Rehme, a German army draftee, had been arrested in a military hospital as he recovered from serious wounds he had received on the Russian front. When all nine defendants were found guilty, Manfred Roeder again demanded the death penalty, on the grounds that they had offered aid and comfort to the enemy. Although at first the Reich Court-Martial sentenced all nine to die, they must have had misgivings, for soon thereafter they recommended that Cato and Liane be pardoned.

  “I want to live, but I expect to die,” Cato murmured to Greta as they walked together in the exercise yard. “Hitler will never show mercy, not even to poor Liane, although I pray they’ll at least wait until she delivers her child.”

  They both looked across the yard to Liane, who placed her feet carefully as she walked, peering forlornly out at the dusty yard through thick, dark, unruly curls, her hands on her abdomen. Even for her age, she was too thin for so late in her second trimester. Her friends shared their rations with her, but it was never enough.

  “You mustn’t lose hope,” Greta urged. “Mildred and Erika were shown some clemency. You and Liane may be too.”

  Cato shot her a sharp sidelong look, not enough to draw the attention of the guards. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Mildred and Erika were sentenced to die.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” Greta shook her head. “I know you’re wrong. It was Elizabeth—” Dear Elizabeth, a true friend in the darkest days of her life. “You’re thinking of Elizabeth Schumacher and Libertas. They received death sentences in that trial.” And where were they now? Charlottenburg? The Hausgefängnis at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8? All Greta knew for certain was that they were not at Alexanderplatz. She wished she could get a message to them, a few words of love and comfort, some reassurance that they had not been forgotten.

  “I’m so sorry, Greta,” said Cato, stricken. “I thought you knew. Hitler rejected those sentences. They were given a new trial, with new charges and contrived evidence, and allegations that Mildred had committed adultery thrown in to turn the judges against her. Mildred and Erika were found guilty of espionage and treason. They were given the death sentence.”

  Greta felt as if all the air was being forced from her lungs. Her knees buckled; she stumbled and might have collapsed except Cato reached out and steadied her. “Are you sure?” she managed to say. “How do you know?”

  “I heard it from one of the guards, the chatty one with the short blond braids. I suppose she could have been lying to torment me.”

  “Perhaps,” said Greta, sick at heart. “But for now, they’re still alive?”

  “I have no idea.” Cato inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders as a whistle shrilled to signal the end of their exercise period. “But now you see why I have little hope that any mercy will be shown to me, or to any of us.”

  Thanks to Cato, Greta knew what to expect when her own trial came, but on the first day of February when she was led from her cell outside to the police van, her heart plummeted and her legs shook so badly that she had difficulty walking. It took all her willpower to maintain a stoic expression rather t
han give her captors any pleasure in her suffering, but the mask slipped when she arrived at the Reichskriegsgericht building and a guard told her she would be allowed a few minutes with Adam before the trial.

  Inside, the guard escorted her to a waiting room and gestured for her to enter. She quickly obeyed, her gaze taking in seven men in prison attire, passing over Adolf Grimme with a flicker of acknowledgment and at last finding her husband. When Adam’s eyes met hers, she instinctively pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry—of joy to see him again, and of shock at his haggard appearance.

  As she stood frozen, he hurried to meet her by the door, and soon they were in each other’s arms, holding on so tightly that Greta almost couldn’t breathe. He had aged years in the nearly five months since she had last seen him. She could only imagine how her own altered appearance shocked and dismayed him.

  They spoke rapidly, knowing time was of the essence. Adam was almost never allowed to receive mail, so she quickly shared the most important details from the letters their mothers had sent her, focusing on Ule, the family, herself—but before she could ask what he knew of Mildred or their other friends, he took her hands and said, “Greta, listen. There’s something I want you to do.”

  “Anything, darling. What?”

  “I need your help clearing Grimme’s name.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

  “You and I are both done for, but Grimme was barely involved. He still has a chance to get off with a prison sentence. He’s been my friend since our school days. If you confirm his innocence in court, if we keep our stories straight, there’s a chance we could save him.”