In mid-January, nine more members of the Rote Kapellewent 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? TheHausgefängnisat 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 than 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.”
A flicker of anger surged. She was not willing to accept that she was done for, not yet, not until the sentence was pronounced. “Very well,” she managed to say. “Grimme knew nothing. He did nothing. We hid our work from him because we knew he would not approve.”
He smiled, relieved. “That’s my good girl.” He drew her close again and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, darling.”
She stiffened in his embrace, but knowing that she might never again feel his arms around her, she forced herself to relax, to relent, to forgive. And yet in the back of her mind a plaintive voice lamented that Adam and Grimme could have worked out a story to exonerate her instead. She was Adam’s wife, the mother of his youngest son, and yet when he decided to try to save one person, he had chosen someone else.
The guard unlocked the door and barked a command, ending their brief interlude. The eight defendants were escorted into the courtroom and ordered to take their places. The court was called into session, Roeder began the proceedings, and then, so swiftly that Greta would have become outraged if she were not so afraid and overwhelmed, Hitler’s Bloodhound flew through all eight prosecutions in a single day.
After the judges retired to their chambers, the eight defendants were escorted back to the waiting room and again permitted to speak freely. Shaken from the courtroom ordeal, Greta seized Adam’s hand and tried to draw strength from his firm, familiar grasp. She expected the men to discuss the trial and its possible outcomes, but instead they shared rumors of a staggering German defeat at Stalingrad that had apparently occurred only a few days before. Greta looked from one eager, careworn face to another, marveling at their enthusiasm. Could it be that none of them had reached the same conclusion she had—that Hitler, who always found a scapegoat to blame for every failure, could very well hold the Rote Kapelle responsible for this disastrous loss? They had provided volumes of military and economic intelligence to the Soviets. Hitler would not care if a direct link could not be established. He would not care if the correct people were punished, as long as someone was.
As the men’s discussion became increasingly animated, Greta worried that they had abandoned caution, at the Reichskriegsgericht of all places. She glanced surreptitiously toward the guards and was surprised to find them conversing nonchalantly, utterly indifferent to their prisoners’ seditious talk. Indeed, why should they care? Greta thought bitterly. To the guards, the defendants were as good as dead. Nothing they said mattered anymore.
All too soon, the defendants were loaded into the police van and taken back to prison. Greta slept poorly that night, and was awakened before dawn by a guard rattling her cell door. Groggily, she rose, dressed, and attended to her face and hair as best she could, determined to appear dignified and respectable before the court, not that it would sway their decision.
Again they were brought before the judges, but this time, they were asked if they wished to make any final statements on their own behalf. Greta’s blood roiled with shock and anger as Adolf Grimme reminded the court that he was a man of prominence and renown, that he had served as the Reich minister of culture, that he had received the Goethe Prize from Field Marshal Hindenburg’s own hands. He swore that he was no Communist, but a socialist and a man of faith who had succumbed to Adam Kuckhoff’s influence.
As he returned to his place, Greta could not bear to look at him, but she was startled to find Adam apparently unsurprised by his friend’s denunciation. Perhaps they had worked out Grimme’s statement between themselves ahead of time, but Greta still seethed with suppressed fury. How dare Grimme vainly attempt to save his own life by shoving Adam toward the gallows?
