Martha and her mother exchanged a look, unable to imagine what could be found at that price on a street known for gracious, elegant homes. The old carriage house of a luxurious mansion converted into flats? Servants’ quarters in an attic? Martha was afraid to ask. Her father was exceedingly proud of the great bargain he had struck, so she prepared herself for the worst.
She was in no hurry to relocate. She adored the Esplanade, her comfortable bedroom and the elegant reception halls where the family had already entertained many fascinating foreign dignitaries and handsome, exciting men—including Louis Ferdinand, Prince of Prussia and second in line of succession to the recently abolished German throne; Ernst Hanfstaengl, the German foreign press chief, who cheerfully urged Martha to call him by his nickname, Putzi; and Boris Vinogradov, the first secretary of the Soviet embassy, a particularly intriguing new acquaintance.
Then there was Rudolf Diels, the young, compelling, and sinister chief of the Gestapo. His penetrating eyes could convey warmth or malevolence, but it was what lay behind those eyes that had earned him the sobriquet Prince of Darkness. He seemed to take a vicious joy in his mystique, which for Martha only enhanced the allure of his lovely full lips, his luxuriant black hair, and even the cruel, broken beauty of his scarred face. A long, shallow V marred his right cheek, a deep crescent the left, and smaller arcs cut across his chin and near his mouth—dueling scars, or so the rumors told. He was also said to possess great charm and sexual prowess—rumors Martha hoped to confirm for herself before long.
Martha winced with chagrin whenever she imagined entertaining a guest like Rudolf Diels or hosting a banquet for high-ranking German officials and aristocratic foreign emissaries in a cheap flat. Her father’s determination to drive their own Chevrolet was an endearing quirk. His decision to rent the least expensive residence on the market could prove to be an embarrassment or worse.
The next day, Martha, Bill, and their mother went to see Tiergartenstrasse 27a for themselves. The street ran along the southern edge of the park, offering them a lovely view of lush greenery and flowers as they walked along. When they reached the correct address, their doubt gave way to amazement. Their new home was a four-story stone mansion enclosed by a tall, ornate iron fence, with leafy trees rising above beautiful cultivated flower gardens in the front yard. The front façade curved gracefully, and through the foliage Martha glimpsed the main entrance near the northwest corner, at the base of a rounded tower rising the entire height of the building. Near the street, the driveway passed through a high gate with an elaborate ironwork arch and ended beneath a porte cochère. Above that rose a gallery one and a half stories tall with many windows to let in the light.
Perhaps Martha’s father did not object to luxury after all, as long as it came at the right price.
When they knocked on the front door, the butler, a stocky blond in his midforties, answered. Herr and Frau Panofsky were not at home, he informed them, but it would be his pleasure to give them a tour of the house.
The residence was as impressive inside as it was from the outside. The main entrance led into a large foyer with coatrooms on opposite sides and a grand staircase at one end, drawing visitors above and away from the functional rooms that took up the rest of the first floor—the kitchen, pantry, laundry, ice room, various storage and supply areas, and the servants’ quarters. The second floor boasted two reception rooms, an expansive dining room with walls covered in red tapestry, and a ballroom with a gleaming oval dance floor and a grand piano, upon which sat a crystal vase filled with flowers.
Several graciously appointed bedrooms were on the third floor. The master bath was immense, larger than some apartments Martha had known back in Chicago. The floors and walls glimmered with gold and mosaics of multicolored tiles, and the massive bathtub stood on a raised platform like an altar to some pagan god of cleanliness.
Martha nudged her brother. “On weekends we could sublet the tub to the German Olympic swim team.”
As Bill guffawed, Fritz frowned primly and led the Dodds to the library. The walls were covered in dark wood and rich red damask and lined with bookshelves filled with a vast array of tempting volumes. A glass table held a vase abundant with flowers and a few artfully arranged rare books and manuscripts. At one end of the room stood a great stone fireplace with an elaborately carved mantel and a pair of comfortable leather chairs and a large leather sofa arranged before it. Light streamed in through tall windows with stained glass at the top, and the smells of old paper, leather, and flowers gave the library a familiar, welcoming atmosphere, beckoning Martha to choose a book and settle down for a long, indulgent read far from the cares of the outside world.
Lastly Fritz took them to theWintergarten, a glass-enclosed sunroom on the south end of the main floor that opened onto a terrace overlooking the garden. “Frau Panofsky would insist that you take refreshments before you go,” he said, and when they demurred, reluctant to impose, he bowed silently and departed. He soon returned with coffee and cake, which he served to them at a wrought-iron table on the terrace. With another slight bow, he left them.
“Here’s to Dad,” Martha said, raising her teacup in a toast. “I’m sorry I doubted him.”
“This is really quite a place,” said Bill, enjoying a hearty bite of cake. “And this cake is marvelous.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that the cook and the rest of the staff will remain,” their mother said, pursing her lips as she gazed out at the verdant garden. “Mr. Panofsky was most insistent that they be allowed to stay, and your father was happy to agree.”
Martha studied her. “That’s a rather sad face for such good news.”
“I only wonder why the Panofskys are charging us so little for so much. How could they part with such a beautiful home and everything in it?”
“Maybe they’re going abroad for a while but intend to return,” said Martha. “Maybe they’re tired of these beautiful things and want to buy new ones. Maybe they’re extraordinarily wealthy—”
“Or extraordinarily desperate,” Bill broke in. “If the Panofskys are Jewish, they may be preparing to flee Germany.”
“Surely not.” Martha gestured from the garden to the beautiful house. “Herr Panofsky clearly has money, and money equals power and influence no matter who runs the government.”
“Not in Germany, not if you’re a Jew.” Bill leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Money, power, prestige—they offer scant protection now. A rich Jew is subject to the Aryan Laws as much as a poor Jew. The only exception is for veterans of the Great War and their immediate families, and who knows how long those provisions will last.”
Martha raised her eyebrows at her brother. “What a grim appraisal.”
“Grim but accurate. About fifty thousand Jews have left Germany since Hitler took over as chancellor. Others probably would too, if they could afford it and if they had somewhere to go.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” said their mother. “This home is lovely, but I don’t want to benefit from someone else’s misfortune.”
That evening over dinner, their father confirmed some of what Bill had surmised. The Panofskys were Jews, but as far as he knew, the family did not intend to leave Germany. “They aren’t even leaving the house,” he said. “Mr. Panofsky’s wife and two children have gone to the countryside, but he and his mother are staying. They’re keeping the entire fourth floor and use of the elevator for themselves.”
“I imagine it would be difficult to retreat to the attic while strangers enjoy your luxurious home,” said Martha’s mother, concern clouding her expression.
“Herr Panofsky must think it will suit them,” said Martha’s father. “Perhaps he and his mother intend to join the rest of the family in the countryside soon.”
When the Dodds moved in a few days later, they discovered beautiful floral arrangements throughout the house and a gracious letter from Herr Panofsky welcoming the family to his home, which he hoped they would consider their own for as long as they remained in Berlin. He expressed his admiration for America and encouraged them to come to him if they had any questions about Berlin or needed any recommendations for businesses and services.
“It seems our landlord enjoys the novelty of hosting the American ambassador’s family,” Martha’s father remarked after he finished reading the letter aloud.
“Perhaps that accounts for the low rent and their attic quarters,” Martha mused. Her father smiled, and her mother admitted that she made a fair point, but Bill merely shook his head, unconvinced.
