Twenty minutes was too brief a reunion for all they had to say, but a fortnight later Greta’s parents were permitted to visit her again, and at the end of June they returned, bringing Ule with them. Greta wept as she embraced her son, anxious that he might have forgotten her but reassured by his shy, delighted smile that he knew her on sight. How her parents had managed to get permission for these family visits, she did not know; when she asked, they made evasive replies about a favor from a friend, and she knew not to pursue it. Whoever was responsible, however it had come about, she was profoundly grateful.
Her parents promised her they would come whenever they could, but she saw them only once in July and not again until early August, and on both occasions, Ule was not permitted to come. One day at the end of the month, she was reading in her cell when she heard a key in the lock, and her heart leapt with anticipation. She quickly rose, hoping she was being summoned to the visiting room, but whereas the guards always opened the door quickly with a sharp clang of metal, this time the door opened slowly. When the prison chaplain entered, her heart went into her throat and she sank back into her chair.
“Now they are all dead,” the priest said hollowly. “Your husband and the girls. All of them.”
She stared at him in silence for a long moment. “When?”
“August fifth.” The priest paused to clear his throat and mop his forehead with a handkerchief. “Your husband was hanged at a few minutes past five o’clock. Marie Terweil, Hilde Coppi, Cato Bontjes van Beek, and Liane Berkowitz soon followed.”
She felt something inside her chest crumple, like a sere brown autumn leaf crushed in a fist. “Do you know what will become of their children?” she asked, her voice sounding strangely distant over the roaring in her ears.
He did not know, but he offered to make inquiries. Nodding her thanks, she forced herself to rise and stumble to her bunk, where she lay down as gingerly as if she were broken and bruised and might shatter on impact.
Adam was gone. Mildred was gone. Arvid, Libertas, Harro, Elizabeth, Cato, Liane—they were all gone. Dead. Surely she would be next. But when? Why was she still among the living?
What a cruel punishment it was to be the last of her friends alive, knowing her own death was imminent.
A few weeks later, she was called to Oberin Weider’s office and handed a summons to return to court on September 27 for a new trial. Full of dread, suspecting a trap, Greta would have torn the notice into tiny shreds if the matron had not been observing her so closely.
“We need a sympathetic librarian here,” Oberin Weider remarked, an odd non sequitur, or so Greta thought. “Maybe also a medical assistant. Work like that would make the time pass more swiftly. See if you can stay in Charlottenburg. We—that is, all of us, including the sergeants—hope that your new sentence will not be more than three years, in which case we can keep you here.”
Greta nodded respectfully, hiding her confusion. The matron spoke as if Greta could choose her verdict and where she served her time. And when in the history of Nazi justice had a death sentence been overturned in favor of a three-year prison term? Perhaps Oberin Weider was trying to soothe her so she would be easier to manage, but babbling nonsense at her was not the way.
Greta had no choice but to report to the Reichskriegsgericht.This time, however, she had no fear, only anger and defiance. What more could they do to hurt her? They had already separated her from her son, killed her husband, murdered her friends, sentenced her to death. They had captured and executed everyone in the resistance that she could possibly betray, so torture would be pointless. What could be worse than the death sentence she had already received? They could not chop off her head twice.
When she was brought before the judges, she met their gazes steadily, determined not to let them see any nervousness or intimidation. The prosecutor, Dr. Linz, began by addressing the court, noting for the record the reason for the new trial. After the first trial had concluded, one of the lead defense attorneys, Dr. Rudolf Behse, had so strongly objected to the verdict that he had submitted an official protest. The court chairman had been sufficiently impressed with his argument to pass on the recommendation to the legal inspector, who had called for a new trial, a new sentence.
Then, as Dr. Linz continued speaking, he mentioned something else that sent an electric jolt through Greta’s body. She stared at him, stark incredulity overtaking every other emotion.
Her death sentence had been revoked in May.
Although no one had informed her, the Reichskriegsgericht had canceled her execution four months before.
She struggled to compose herself as her new trial commenced, her thoughts in a tangle of confusion and indignation. Much to her relief, Manfred Roeder, the original prosecutor, had been transferred and would not be involved in these proceedings, and her first impression was that Dr. Linz was nothing like Hitler’s Bloodhound. She was astounded when he announced that he intended to pursue a sentence of a maximum of five years in prison, without loss of honor but not including time served. But just as she felt a faint kindling of hope, the other judges sternly assured her that they intended to do everything in their power to disregard his recommendation.
The judges interrogated her vigorously for four hours, throwing statements from the original trial in her face, as if it were her fault that they could no longer extract incriminating testimony from the dead. They turned and twisted every word that she spoke, until finally, overcome with lethargy, she fell silent. They would believe what they wanted and do as they wished. Finally the judges withdrew to deliberate, and when they returned, they announced that she was sentenced to ten years in prison and ten years’ loss of civil rights for assisting in the preparation of a treasonous undertaking and aiding and abetting the enemy.
When court was adjourned, Greta stood as ordered, wondering what had just happened. She was taken from the courtroom to the police van to the prison to her cell, too bewildered and mistrustful to allow herself even a fleeting moment of joy or relief. They had vowed to execute her once. They could easily change their minds. She would trust that her death sentence had been commuted when she walked out of prison a free woman, and not one hour before.
Her wariness seemed prescient a few days later, on October 5, when she was informed that she must return to the Reichskriegsgericht to meet with the judicial inspector. Immediately skeptical, Greta found herself thinking of Harro and the sham courier mission to the Russian front that had culminated in his arrest. She was tempted to remind the warden that no pretense was required in her case. She was already their captive. If they intended to take her to Plötzensee and the guillotine, she could not stop them.
Outside, the sky was cloudless blue, the air cool and crisp, a perfect autumn day. Her escort handed her off to another guard waiting outside by the police van. “Are you Frau Kuckhoff?” he asked, eyeing her curiously.
“I am.”
He nodded, opened the back of the van, and offered his arm to help her inside. She raised her eyebrows at his strange show of courtesy, but she accepted his assistance. He must be new, she decided. He would change. Absolute power over helpless prisoners would corrupt him the same as it did everyone else.
Until the guard halted the van and opened the door, she did not know whether he had driven her to the Reichskriegsgericht or to Plötzensee. Never before had she felt such relief upon seeing the imposing courthouse. Inside, she was taken before the judicial inspector, who brusquely led her through some official formalities before signing off on her new sentence. Then, unexpectedly, he removed his glasses and sat back in his chair with a sigh. “I regret that the other defendants who were tried with you have already perished at Plötzensee,” he said. “Better to be still alive, albeit with a long prison sentence.”
“Yes, sir,” Greta murmured, looking down at her hands in her lap to conceal a surge of anger. How dare he feign sympathy. Her husband was dead, her friends were dead, andhefelt regret? Poor him. She hoped remorse ate him up from the inside out.
“It vexes me that my proposal concerning your sentence was not accepted,” he continued, oblivious. “However, any judgment handed down by this court will stand until the end of the war—may that not be too long in coming.”
Greta looked up sharply. No doubt his version of victory included Nazis marching along Downing Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. How strange it was that they could both yearn for peace and yet envision it so differently.
The same guard was waiting outside the chamber door to escort her out to the van and back to prison. Suddenly, a few meters away, he halted and regarded her squarely. “It’s a beautiful day, and we’re often urged to conserve petrol. We’ll walk back to the prison instead.”
Greta looked at him askance, immediately wary, but he jerked his head in the direction of the pedestrian gate and started off, and since she had nowhere else to go except back into the loathed courthouse, she followed after him. As soon as they had turned the corner a block away, he said, “Who would you like to share your good news with first? Do you have any friends who live nearby?”
