“It’ll do nicely,” Martha managed to say, hoping that no one had seen her jaw drop when she crossed the threshold. University professors’ families were not accustomed to such magnificence. The Imperial Suite was bigger than their home in Hyde Park—three bedrooms with baths, a drawing room, a conference room, and two reception rooms with high ceilings, walls lined with satin brocades, tapestried furniture, and marble tables. Every room overflowed with the loveliest flowers. So many well-wishers had sent floral arrangements—orchids, rare scented lilies, blooms of every imaginable variety—that there was scarcely space to move in.
Martha’s mother took in the size of the rooms, the opulent decor, and the breathtaking views through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stifling gasps as she discovered new splendors everywhere she turned. “We’ll have to mortgage our souls to pay for all this,” she murmured, somewhat dazed.
Before Martha could reply, she overheard her father speaking in an adjacent room. “I’m sorry you went to so much trouble, Messersmith,” he said sternly, “but before we left the United States, I told the State Department that I wanted modest quarters in a modest hotel. This is certainly not that.”
“The Germans would find that very strange, even offensive,” replied Messersmith. “An ambassador is expected to meet a certain standard of extravagance.”
“Even in the midst of a depression? When we landed in Hamburg, the manager of the Adlon hotel wired to offer us a suite free of charge. I’m inclined to accept.”
“You mustn’t, sir,” Gordon broke in. “State Department officials and American diplomats always stay at the Esplanade. If we leave, it will be an atrocious breach of protocol.”
“If you’re going to break precedent, I’d advise you not to choose a competing hotel,” said Messersmith.
Martha’s father sighed, considering. “I can’t abide spending taxpayer dollars on opulence when people back home are going hungry. We’ll find a private home to rent, but we won’t stay here.”
Messersmith acquiesced, Gordon too, though far less readily. With that sorted, the embassy officials bade the Dodds good evening and left them on their own. Martha’s father retired to his room with a book to rest before dinner, while Martha and her mother tried to make themselves at home in the grand drawing room, overawed by their glamorous surroundings.
“I don’t think we need to rush into house hunting,” said Martha, kicking off her shoes and stretching out luxuriously on a tapestried sofa. “Can’t we enjoy being spoiled for a while? Haven’t we earned it after all those days and nights in a tiny cabin aboard ship?”
Her mother raised her eyebrows, but before she could chide Martha for embracing extravagance, she was interrupted by a knock on the door—a bellhop with another delivery of flowers and cards welcoming the family to Germany. Martha had no sooner found a place for them when another knock on the door sounded, and two more bouquets were presented. Again and again the bellhop returned, until at last the flow of deliveries ceased just in time for them to dress for dinner. Bill himself brought in the last bouquet.
Martha’s father was in excellent spirits as they went downstairs to the hotel dining room and were seated at one of the finest tables. His wife and children exchanged amused glances as he tested his German on the waiters and staff, asking questions, making jokes, and generally not behaving at all as a properly stuffy, arrogant ambassador ought. They enjoyed a delicious, authentic German dinner, and Martha tasted her first real German beer and declared it quite perfect.
Afterward, they decided to go for a walk to stretch their legs and relax before calling it a night. They strolled the length of the Siegesallee, a broad boulevard lined with lovely trees and ponderous statues of Germany’s former rulers and statesmen. Martha’s father paused before each one and offered his family a brief historical sketch of the man, his era, his accomplishments, and his character. He seemed utterly in his element, and Martha was so happy for him that her heart overflowed with joy and love.
How thankful she was that her father had invited her to share in his adventure! It was a lovely night, the streets softly lit, and all was serene, romantic, unfamiliar, nostalgic. She delighted in the warmth and friendliness of the people, the caress of the summer air perfumed with the fragrance of flowers and trees, the charm of the Old World buildings of stone and brick, so different from the skyscraper canyons of Chicago and New York.
If first impressions counted for anything, the American press had badly maligned Germany. She could not wait to see what other unexpected delights awaited her.
Chapter Eighteen
July 1933
Greta
Berlin was sublime in summer, the Tiergarten green and blooming, the breezes soft, the sunshine warm and beneficent. Restaurants and theaters thrived; fashionable men and women laughed and drank and smoked at cafés. Neighbors gossiped and carefree children played underfoot. The poor still struggled, but there was a sense that better times lay just around the corner. As for the marching SA in their ill-fitting brown uniforms, and the SS in their more impressive tailored black, unless one was their enemy, their appearances brought a thrill of excitement to an otherwise ordinary day. The National Socialist anthems and chants raised hopes and renewed pride in a nation beleaguered by economic depression and humiliation that still lingered years after the end of the Great War.
Or so Greta observed in neighbors and acquaintances who had fallen in line with the Nazi doctrine with an ardent swiftness that defied understanding. What she felt was a vague, unsettled dread punctuated by alarm and horror. Almost daily she heard of new atrocities dealt to the Nazis’ political rivals, Jews, and unwitting tourists who had eluded the process ofGleichschaltungand did not realize they had committed a crime until a Brownshirt knocked them to the pavement with a rubber truncheon or the butt of a rifle. Attacks on Americans—Jews, or people perceived as Jews, or tourists who eschewed the Hitler salute—were reported almost every day, terrifying in their randomness and violence. Greta was deeply concerned that Mildred, in her American naiveté and optimism, would stumble into danger even though she had lived in Germany for several years.
But as dangerous as Germany had become for Americans, countless thousands of German citizens endured even worse treatment at the hands of their own government. Americans who stumbled into trouble had the influential U.S. consulate to advocate for them. German Jews, Communists, and outspoken opponents of the Reich had no one.
Although Greta had returned from London to a very different Germany than she had left, she could not agree that German theater was dead. Certainly its people had been scattered and diminished by arrests, desertions, and emigration. Yet subversive remnants persisted, not only in the irreverent, dissolute cabarets but in the most renowned theater circles. Adam introduced Greta to playwrights, actors, and producers who drank and dined with Nazi officials one night and condemned them in scathing satire and allegory the next. Offstage, Adam and some trusted friends surreptitiously produced and distributed flyers denouncing the Nazis and calling for Social Democrats and Communists to unite in opposing them. It was dangerous work, as anyone caught in possession of anti-Nazi literature was severely punished with imprisonment and harsh beatings. Although Greta feared for Adam’s safety, it was a relief to meet people undaunted and defiant when so many other Germans had fallen under the spell of Nazi propaganda or had slipped into a state of passive oblivion. As long as some Germans resisted, Nazi dominion was not absolute.
Adam urged Greta to join the fight. “Because I love you, I must have you at my side in this political struggle,” he told her one evening as she typed and proofread an antifascist pamphlet he and Hans Otto had written together. When she raised her eyebrows at him and gestured to the pages she was preparing for the mimeograph, he added, “Not mere clerical work. A woman of your intelligence could, and must, contribute so much more.”
She glowed from his praise, but what more could she do? She had no power, no influence, few resources. She barely had work from one day to the next, patching together a living from freelance writing and editing jobs. Some offers came from Adam’s colleagues, but most she had picked up through connections made at Mildred and Arvid’s literary salon, a friendly and loyal group of intellectuals, writers, editors, and artists who gathered at their flat a few times a month for suppers and Saturday afternoon teas. Mildred made the rooms cozy with candles and artful arrangements of pussy willows and alpenrosen, and she passed around plates of liverwurst sandwiches, thinly sliced bread, cheese, sausage, and tomatoes, but it was the conversation and company that most enlivened the senses. Greta observed in the other guests’ expressions what she herself felt, that the Harnack flat had become a sanctuary for dissenters and antifascists, a place where one could breathe deeply, speak freely.
One Wednesday evening in late July, Greta arrived at the salon too late for dinner—Adam had asked her to observe a run-through of a new play at the Staatstheater and it had taken longer than expected—but just in time for coffee and dessert. She found friends and colleagues mingling and talking, some murmuring intently with heads bent close together, others smiling as they debated animatedly, and one brave or reckless soul loudly declaring that Goebbels was a vile bastard and Himmler an utter fool.
Greta made her way to the kitchen, claimed a cup of coffee and a slice ofApfelkuchen, and wandered into the front room to search for Mildred. She found Arvid instead. “It’s not the University Club, but it’ll do,” he said by way of greeting, taking in the crowded room, offering her a wry smile.
A pang of nostalgia struck. She imagined herself back in Madison, ascending the stone staircase and passing through the arches to the front entrance of the gracious redbrick building on the corner of Murray and State streets on the Library Mall at the foot of Bascom Hill. Inside, the sounds of laughter and animated conversation beckoned her downstairs to a private dining room where about two dozen men and women mingled around three tables, some holding cigarettes, others with newspapers or books tucked under their arms—the Friday Niters, professors and graduate students meeting to study and discuss the imperative matters of the day, confident in their belief that well-meaning people in academia and government could work together to make the world better, safer, more equitable for all. How long ago and far away it seemed.
“I can only imagine what Professor Commons and the rest of our old friends think of what has become of Germany,” said Greta.
“Perhaps Germany will serve as a warning,” said Arvid. “May they learn from us to snuff out fascism in America when the first sparks arise and not delay until democracy goes up in flames all around them.”
“This could never happen in America. A nation that elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt would never elect a madman populist.”
