March–April 1933
Greta
On the morning after the last vestiges of the Weimar Republic crumbled, Greta strode to campus with her shoulders squared and jaw set, seething with outrage she dared not express. How could her fellow citizens have been so reckless as to hand over their country to a ranting madman? Was it ignorance or malice that had compelled them to embrace fascism?
As she passed other men and women on the streets going about the business of an ordinary day, she wondered if they were as horror-struck as she was or if their impassive expressions masked jubilation. Unless they bore the swastika on an armband or lapel pin, or strutted triumphantly in the uniform of SS or SA, her searching gaze revealed nothing. Outward appearances betrayed little of the truth of someone’s heart, whether one secretly raged and lamented, or hated Jews, women, and Communists and was bursting with satisfaction that soon they all would get what the Nazis promised they had coming.
When Greta arrived at Professor Mannheim’s office, she found him seated at his desk, gazing out the window over the rims of his glasses, shoulders slumped in resignation. When she shut the door behind her, he nodded in greeting and began arranging papers on his desktop without truly looking at them. His face was gray and haggard, as if he had not slept in days.
“It’s a grim day for Germany,” she said, going to the bookshelves to pick up her work where she had left off the day before. “My academic training never prepared me for this.”
He strangled out a laugh. “I understand. As a sociologist, I recognized the ominous signs, and yet somehow I still believed that ultimately the German people would reject fascism, that we would choose liberty, equality, and progress. And yet—” He gestured to the window, to the newly unfathomable world beyond it. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” Greta echoed, wondering where that was exactly, where this sudden, drastic shifting of the axis of life as she knew it would tumble them.
“Miss Lorke, I have a proposition.” Professor Mannheim fixed her with an appraising look. “You enjoy traveling abroad, do you not?”
“Yes, very much.” With a pang of wistfulness, she thought of the Henrichs’ lovely home in Zurich, of dinners with the Friday Niters at the University Club in Madison. How distant they seemed to her now, how warm and safe and welcoming, how inaccessible.
“You’re fluent in English?”
Honesty compelled her to admit, “I’ve fallen out of practice since I left America, but I’m sure I could quickly regain whatever fluency I’ve lost.”
“I’ve received an offer to join the faculty of the London School of Economics,” he said. “Recent events have convinced me to accept.”
“I see.” Greta struggled to conceal her distress. What would this mean for her, for her work, for her dissertation? “When will you be leaving?”
“As quickly as it can be arranged.”
She nodded, heart plummeting. Too soon for her to complete her degree, then.
“I had hoped that you might assist me,” he continued. “I have many details to sort out here—selling my home, settling accounts, preparing my family, packing, visas—” He closed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it of noise. “I’d like to send you on ahead to London, if you’re willing, to set up my office, find a suitable residence, and otherwise prepare for my family’s immigration.”
She listened, speechless, as he set out the terms—departure date, an increase in salary, room and board gratis until he arrived in London, expedited enrollment in his new department if she wished to complete her doctorate there. Even if she did prefer to return to Frankfurt after he was settled in London, she could still continue to work on her dissertation in the meantime, with all the resources of the London School of Economics at her disposal.
When he suggested that she take a few days to think it over, she found her voice. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, overwhelmed by relief and hope and the sudden shift in her fortunes. “I accept.”
After a brief trip to Frankfurt an der Oder to visit her family, Greta traveled by train to Calais and from there by ship across the Channel to Dover. On the train to London, as overlapping conversations in English seemed to come at her from every direction, she was struck by a jarring sensation of reliving a slightly distorted memory from her own past, the strange dissonance of hearing her native tongue again upon her return to Germany from the United States.
After a few days in London, immersing herself in English as she completed the long list of tasks Professor Mannheim had entrusted to her, Greta felt nearly as comfortable in conversation as she had in Madison. The city deeply impressed her, its history, its charming boroughs, the people’s passion for turning even the smallest patch of earth into an abundant and orderly garden. If the food was not as satisfying and flavorful as German cooking, it was plentiful, and her cheerful landlady kept her well supplied with tea and biscuits in the parlor of her Covent Garden boardinghouse.
Greta quickly became familiar with Clare Market in Westminster where the school was located, and as she strolled the streets between her boardinghouse and campus, she could well imagine remaining in London to complete her doctorate, as Professor Mannheim had suggested. She felt as if she had left a heavy burden of wariness behind her on the pier at Calais, and that once again she could think and speak freely without fear of repercussions. No swastika flags flapped in the wind off the Thames, no Brownshirts paraded on Pall Mall, and a rational if imperfect gentleman with strong ties to the labor movement served as prime minister.
In the absence of the pleasant distractions of her friends and her study group, she resolved to make steady progress on her dissertation. At first, every evening after a full day of work, she dutifully settled down to her books and papers in her boardinghouse room, taking notes and writing a few pages. But outside her window the West End beckoned, and after a few days the enticement of the theater proved irresistible. She scrimped on meals and walked everywhere, saving her wages for cheap tickets to the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, the Prince Edward, the Adelphi, the Phoenix. She enjoyed the cinema too, indulging in comedies and musicals as well as dramas and literary adaptations. And when the newsreels played alarming reports of growing fascism in Germany, she found comfort in the indignant murmurs of the audience, a sense of vindication that her worries and her anger were justified, not products of an overactive imagination or a zealous liberal mind-set.
One night after a screening ofShanghai Expressat the Carlton Theatre, Greta was walking home, lost in thought about Marlene Dietrich’s marvelous performance, when she heard someone call her name. Glancing about, she spotted a choreographer she had known in Berlin hurrying across the street to meet her. They embraced, marveled at their unlikely encounter so far from home, and quickly decided to catch up over tea and cake at a nearby café.
Anna’s news from Berlin was unsettling. “German theater is dead,” she said flatly, stirring sugar into her tea. “The geniuses who created our golden age—whether Jews, Communists, or simply opponents of fascism—have fled the country or have fallen silent. Their only other choice is to conform to the new regime, which I believe is a fate worse than death.”
The renowned playwright and director Bertolt Brecht had left a hospital bed to flee to Prague with his wife and eight-year-old son, leaving their two-year-old daughter behind in hopes that relatives could bring her to them later. The celebrated Jewish filmmaker and stage director Max Reinhardt had escaped to his native Austria. The Jewish and socialist producer Leopold Jessner, to whom Adam had introduced Greta at the Internationaler Theaterkongresse, had gone to New York. Erwin Piscator, an outspoken member of the Communist Party, had found refuge in Moscow.
“Günther Weisenborn has more courage than the rest of us combined,” said Anna. “His playWarum lacht Frau Balsam?premiered last month at the Deutsches Künstlertheater as scheduled, but word had gotten out that it was antifascist, and Nazis rioted at the theater. The show closed that night and the play was immediately banned. God only knows when Weisenborn will be able to produce a play in Berlin again.”
“Such a loss,” Greta murmured. Günther Weisenborn was exceptionally gifted—as was everyone Anna had mentioned. “With Jessner gone, what will become of the Staatstheater?”
“Nothing good, I’m sure. Franz Ulbricht is in charge now, and he’s made no secret of his admiration for Hitler and Mussolini.” Anna shuddered and bent over her teacup as if to draw strength from its warmth. “I for one shall never work there again.”
“And what of Adam Kuckhoff?” Greta inquired, too casually.
