For quite some time, she had watched students passing between classes and lectures at the Universität Zürich or poring over books at the library or in the courtyards, scenes reminiscent of her days at the University of Wisconsin. She thought wistfully of her incomplete dissertation, her unfulfilled plans, and began to wonder if perhaps she should finish what she started. As much as she had enjoyed her diversion into theater, it was difficult to see how she could continue along that path without eventually colliding with Adam. Time and distance had eased her heartache, but her wounds were too newly healed to risk tearing them open again.
During the long afternoons that followed the girls’ English lessons, Greta wrote letters of inquiry to universities throughout Germany, beginning with her former professors at the University of Berlin. She sent other inquiries to the University of Jena, wondering if Arvid and Mildred Harnack were on the faculty there, thinking how wonderful it would be to reunite with them—with Mildred, at least. Other letters followed, to universities in Giessen, Frankfurt, and Hamburg—which reminded her painfully of the Internationaler Theaterkongresse—and to a few places in Austria and Switzerland for good measure.
In early September, she received a reply from Karl Mannheim, a professor of sociology at Universität Frankfurt am Main. “He says he finds my credentials impressive,” Greta told Felix and Julia after supper that evening, “but he insists upon an interview before officially taking me on.”
“You must go to the interview, of course,” said Felix. “We won’t find the girls a new tutor until you decide to take the position.”
“It might not be offered to me.”
“I’m certain it will.”
“The only question is whether you will accept,” said Julia. “If you don’t think you’ll like the work or Professor Mannheim, you must come home to us.”
Touched that Julia thought of their home as her own, Greta thanked them and promised to keep their kind offer in mind. And yet when the time came, she purchased a one-way train ticket and packed all of her belongings. Even if Professor Mannheim did not hire her, she knew her future did not lie in Zurich.
After an early morning farewell with the Henrich family, where her young pupils shed a few tears and sweetly begged her to come back soon, Greta traveled four hundred kilometers north to Frankfurt am Main, a thriving city spanning the Main River in Hesse. Dr. Mannheim was not quite forty, with dark, receding hair and a keen, intelligent gaze, his voice warmed by a charming Hungarian accent. He greeted her cordially, smoked a pipe throughout the interview, and seemed especially curious about Greta’s research at the University of Wisconsin and her work with Professor John Commons and the Friday Niters. He explained that his own intellectual focus was the sociology of knowledge, and he hoped she could tell him more about academic developments in the United States.
“I have sufficient funds in my budget to take on a graduate student who will also serve as my assistant and secretary,” he told her. “One of that student’s first duties would be to put my library in order.”
“As it happens,” said Greta, “I have considerable experience organizing libraries.”
When she left his office twenty minutes later, she had the job, as well as his signature on precious documents admitting her to the university as a doctoral student.
Once again her days were full. She took a room in a boardinghouse within a short walk of campus, settled in, and familiarized herself with the sociology section of the university library. Another library demanded most of her attention: Dr. Mannheim’s massive personal collection of books, haphazardly crammed onto bowing bookshelves and piled in precarious heaps on the floor of his office. When Greta was not sorting volumes, she was typing letters, organizing papers, grading undergraduate essays, and handling every other sort of dull but essential task Dr. Mannheim entrusted to her. Along the way, she met several other graduate students in the department, all as overworked and as relieved to be employed as she was.
Once, on a particularly exhausting day, she ran into another doctoral student grabbing a quick lunch at a cheap café within a short sprint of the Sociology Department. When she paused between gulps of coffee to bemoan the impossibility of putting together two consecutive hours to work on her dissertation, he nodded knowingly. “This is what we get for choosing such professors,” he remarked. “Next time we’ll know better than to consent to work for Jews, won’t we?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Greta, recoiling. She had become very fond of Dr. Mannheim and it irked her to hear him insulted, especially with the sort of cheap, nasty antisemitic slur that required no truth to sustain it or any particular wit to speak it.
“Surely you do,” the student protested, grinning. “You know what Jews are like.”
“Which Jews do you mean?” Greta shot back. “All of them? Surely not. No serious aspiring sociologist would be so unscientific as to imagine he could describe millions of people who happen to share the same religion with a handful of convenient adjectives and ludicrous stereotypes.”
“You don’t understand. All I meant—”
“The Jews I know are hardworking people, brilliant scholars, generous friends—and, granted, some of them are less so, but even the worst of those would be better company than you.” She gathered up her plate and cup and books and moved to another table.
He never spoke to her again and avoided her gaze if they passed in the halls, but Greta did not miss him. Scapegoating Jews—or Communists, Poles, women, immigrants—was the refuge of the lazy, envious, and unimaginative. It made the world an ugly, hostile place to live in and did nothing to solve any actual problems. She would rather be solitary than count bigots among her friends.
Fortunately, she met many more congenial students in the department, and several soon became good friends. She also organized a graduate student study group, in part because studying with companions always helped motivate her, but also because she longed to replicate the camaraderie of the Friday Niters. The group was quite small at first, just Greta and a few amiable classmates she had invited out for coffee one afternoon, but when they decided to expand, flyers she posted throughout the department drew a crowd nearly four times as large. It was impossible to choose one day and time that worked well for so many students, so Greta decided to schedule their meetings on different weekdays and at varying hours, so that members could attend whenever they were available. They varied their meeting sites too, but they always chose cafés and common rooms on Zeppelinallee, just west of campus. Since they flew from one important topic to another as often as they changed meeting times and locations, Greta called the seminar theirFliegergruppe, in an amusing nod to their habits as well as their favorite street.
On other occasions, usually late at night after she dragged herself wearily from Dr. Mannheim’s office, shoulders aching from carrying heavy tomes and reaching overhead to sort them on high shelves, Greta would meet up with students from other departments, friends who shared her interest in politics and her loathing for fascism. Throughout that tense autumn, they could not tune out the cacophony of campaigning as Nazis and Communists fought to win over voters from other parties before the upcoming elections. In the previous round of voting in July, while Greta had been in Zurich contemplating her future, neither Hindenburg nor Hitler had gained enough seats in the Reichstag to have a ruling majority, so another round of elections had been scheduled for early November. Most of Greta’s new friends argued that the Social Democrats had governed the country into near ruin, but all agreed that the National Socialists had no real solutions, only outrage, vague promises to make Germany great again, and loud voices.
A few days before the German people cast their ballots, the voters of the United States would choose their next president. This election too Greta followed with great interest. She knew that with the Great Depression grinding on and unemployment soaring over 20 percent, President Herbert Hoover would have a hard time convincing anyone that he deserved four more years. She favored his Democratic challenger, New York governor Franklin D. Roosevelt. Roosevelt’s proposed New Deal, with its progressive policies to help the impoverished and revive the economy, could very well save that country, while Hoover offered nothing but prolonged stagnation.
Wednesday, November 2, was already well under way in Berlin when Greta learned that Roosevelt had won in a landslide. “Seven million votes,” she exclaimed in wonder as the radio at theBierpalastannounced the news, as “Happy Days Are Here Again” played in the background.
“That’s fine for the Americans,” grumbled one friend, “but what does that mean for us here in Germany?”
“Perhaps it’s a sign that the world is turning in a new, progressive direction,” said Greta.
Josef regarded her in disbelief. “Did you pick up this habit of unwarranted optimism in the States?”
Greta almost laughed. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who considers me an optimist.”
“It’s all relative. Go ask Professor Einstein.”
Another friend raised his hands, a plea for peace. “If Mr. Roosevelt can turn the American economy around, perhaps their banks will resume issuing foreign loans. That would help us here.”
