“What an insufferable fellow,” said Martha, moving aside a pile of bouquets and settling down in a seat by the window.
“He’s only doing his job,” her mother replied mildly, but her face was drawn, as if Gordon’s demeanor had confirmed her worst fears of what the European dignitaries would expect of her as the ambassador’s wife.
“I suppose so,” Martha conceded. “Let’s just hope he lets Dad do his.”
She gazed at the passing scenery for a while, murmuring reassuring replies when her mother worried aloud about the duties facing her, the sudden and dramatic disruption to the comfortable pattern of her days. Eventually the rocking of the train and the rumble of the wheels upon the track lulled Martha to sleep.
She woke with a start three hours later when the train shrieked to a halt at the Lehrter Bahnhof, the majestic train station on the Spree in central Berlin. Stiff and yawning, she barely had time to rub the sleep from her eyes and put on her hat before she and her parents were ushered outside to the platform, where a crowd of people speaking in German and English awaited them. Gordon pointed out a few representatives from the U.S. embassy standing near the front, while several officials from the German foreign bureau were easily identified by their swastika armbands and lapel pins. Perfectly placed to observe the scene was a crush of newspaper reporters and photographers. Their flashbulbs popped blindingly until Martha could no longer discern faces through the spots before her eyes, but she gamely smiled first this way and then that as people called to her.
Eventually the furor subsided and a smiling man of medium height bounded forward to introduce himself as George Messersmith, the counsel general. Martha immediately recognized his name; her father had mentioned reading his dispatches to Washington describing the state of affairs in Germany. Martha took an instant liking to him as he courteously brought forward prominent members of the crowd who wished to meet the ambassador and his family—German officials, American expatriates, and representatives from other foreign embassies. Martha was most pleased to meet the leader of the American Women’s Club, a lovely blonde, slender and tall, with large, serious gray-blue eyes and a manner that suggested thoughtful contemplation of her words before she spoke. The club presented Martha and her mother with a lovely bouquet, and before long so many other groups had showered them in beautiful roses, orchids, and other blossoms that their arms became too full to accept any more.
At a word from Messersmith, Martha’s father took the press corps aside, read some brief prepared remarks, and invited questions. After a few moments, a plump, golden-haired woman who looked to be around forty approached Martha and her mother and offered to help carry their flowers. “Thank you,” said Martha, inclining her head toward her mother.
“It’s the least I can do for a coworker,” the woman remarked as she took on more than half of Mrs. Dodd’s burden. She seemed just about Martha’s height, five foot three, with an impish face and a tenacious gleam in her blue eyes. “Sigrid Schultz, theTribune’s correspondent in chief for Central Europe.”
“Yes, of course,” said Martha. “I’ve read your work, and I’ve seen your photo in the office.”
“What are your first impressions of Berlin?” Sigrid asked Martha’s mother.
“That depends,” Martha interjected before her mother could reply, with a teasing smile to soften the sting. “Is this an interview?”
“If I let you off the hook now, would you grant me an exclusive later?”
“We’d be delighted to have you over for tea and a chat, Miss Schultz,” said Martha’s mother graciously. “Just as soon as we’re settled.”
“Fair enough.”
The crowd had begun to disperse, and Gordon was gesturing toward a nearby curb where two gleaming black Mercedes-Benzes waited, presumably to carry the Dodds, their luggage, and their escorts to their lodgings. As Martha and her mother bade the lingering well-wishers goodbye, Sigrid touched Martha’s arm. “Don’t leave just yet.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called to the tall slender blonde from the American Women’s Club. “Mildred, do you have a moment?”
The woman nodded, then exchanged a few words with her companions and returned to the platform. “Hello, Sigrid,” she said, her voice warm and mellifluous. “Mrs. Dodd, Miss Dodd.”
“Please call me Martha,” she said, though it was a relief to hear herself referred to as Miss Dodd again. If she had her way, no one in Germany would ever know her married name. Her divorce would surely be wrapped up soon, so why not reclaim her maiden name now?
“You two really ought to know each other better,” said Sigrid. “You’re both midwesterners, and you share a love of literature and writing.”
“You’re a writer?” asked Martha, pleased. “I used to write for theTribune, like Sigrid here, but just book reviews, author profiles, and publishing news. Nothing as glamorous as news reports from around the globe.”
“I wish I were so prolific,” said Mildred, smiling. “I’d like to write more poetry and fiction, but teaching, studying, and working on my doctoral dissertation consumes all my time.”
“So you’re a scholar as well as a writer,” said Martha. “You and my father would get along wonderfully. You must come to lunch at the embassy so I can properly introduce you.”
Mildred said she would be delighted and gave Martha her card, but their conversation ended abruptly when Counselor Gordon strode over and announced that the cars were ready to depart.
Martha assumed she would ride with her mother while her father went off with the embassy officers, but there was much bustle and confusion, worsened by the press corps shouting questions. Martha was led to a car already occupied by an embassy officer Messersmith introduced as the family’sProtokolsecretary. At first she was pleased—the officer was rather good-looking, young, blond, broad-shouldered—but she was startled when Messersmith suddenly closed the door before anyone else climbed in. As their driver pulled into traffic, she craned her neck just in time to glimpse her parents packed into the other car with Messersmith, his wife, and Gordon.
They drove south, crossing a bridge over the Spree and proceeding down long, straight boulevards into the city. The orderly grid reminded her of Chicago, but little else she glimpsed through the windows did. Instead of the familiar skyscrapers of the Loop or the tall brownstones of Hyde Park, the buildings were rather low, rarely more than five stories tall, with charming stone buildings centuries old set beside modern structures with glass walls, curved façades, and flat roofs. The energy of the streets also reminded her of home—the sidewalks bustling with businessmen and shoppers, the streets full of omnibuses, electric trams, and autos, a swift river of color and chrome.
TheProtokolofficer pointed out various landmarks as they passed, which Martha understood as an invitation to consider him her tour guide. She asked him about this building and that street, until her incessant curiosity apparently got the better of him and his voice became strained, his replies increasingly brusque.
“That, of course, is the Reichstagsgebäude,” he said as they passed an enormous sandstone building on an open plaza, an imposing Italianate Renaissance structure with towers two hundred feet tall at the four corners.
“I thought it had burned down,” Martha exclaimed. From what she had read in the papers, she had expected a pile of rubble and ash, but the towers stood tall and the walls seemed undamaged. “It looks all right to me. Tell me what happened.”
Suddenly theProtokolofficer leaned toward her, his face scarlet. “Sssh!” he hissed. “Young lady, you must learn to be seen and not heard. You mustn’t say so much and ask so many questions. This isn’t America and you can’t say all the things you think!”
Astonished, Martha pressed her lips together, glared indignantly, and turned back to the window. She would have expected more courtesy from a diplomat. Perhaps she had been a bit overly enthusiastic, but he clearly was in the wrong line of work if he could not handle a few questions from the new ambassador’s daughter on her first visit to Berlin.
It was a frosty ride the rest of the way to the Esplanade, the luxurious hotel on Bellevuestrasse where the embassy had arranged for the Dodds to stay. As soon as the car was parked and the driver opened her door, Martha bounded out and rejoined her parents without a single parting word for the insolentProtokolsecretary. While bellhops sorted their luggage, Messersmith and Gordon escorted the family through the glamorous lobby and past the Palm Courtyard—an elegant restaurant, Martha surmised from the quick glance she managed in passing, a stone courtyard enclosed by a high glass ceiling, with crystal chandeliers, spotless white linen tablecloths, and gleaming silver and china. An elevator carried them to the Imperial Suite, where their escorts insisted upon showing them around to be sure everything was satisfactory.
