A week after the Dodds moved into Tiergartenstrasse 27a, they decided to take a road trip to see more of the country. They planned to drive south from Berlin to Leipzig, where Martha’s parents would linger for a few days so her father could visit his favorite old haunts from his graduate student days. Meanwhile, Martha and Bill would continue on all the way to Austria.
As they were planning their route and debating what sights to see, Bill asked if he might bring a friend along. “Fine by me,” said Martha, tempted to suggest Rudolf Diels, who would surely prove to be as fascinating a guide as he was a dinner companion. Or perhaps Boris Vinogradov, whom she had been getting to know at various embassy functions. He was tall and blond with gorgeous blue-green eyes, a charming if inelegant dancer and quite the flirt. He spoke little English, and she spoke no Russian, but they managed to stumble along well enough in German.
But Rudolf and Boris were her friends, not Bill’s, and Martha was well pleased with his choice—Quentin Reynolds, a journalist, formerly a sports reporter with theNew York Telegramand recently appointed an associate editor ofCollier’s Weekly. He was tall, burly, and quite handsome, with curly red hair, blue eyes, and a ready grin. Martha was not entirely disappointed that flirting with the Prince of Darkness and the Russian first secretary would have to wait until she returned to Berlin.
Since Bill was bringing a friend, Martha suggested inviting Mildred Harnack too. Soon after the Dodds’ arrival in Berlin, Martha had asked Mildred to join her for lunch at the Palm Courtyard at the Esplanade, and they had become fast friends over their mutual love of literature and writing. They shared many favorite authors in common, and they eagerly recommended novels, new and classic, to one another. Mildred had asked Martha to join her literary salon, and at Martha’s invitation, Mildred had attended several teas and other functions at the embassy. Mildred spoke German perfectly and would have been excellent company on the road. Unfortunately, she had to decline, as their three-week itinerary would prevent her from returning to Berlin in time for the start of the new school term.
Thus it was a party of five rather than six that departed Berlin on a warm, sunny Sunday morning. Bill drove the old family Chevrolet, their father took the front passenger seat beside him, and Martha sat in back between her mother and Quentin. Martha soon teased out of him that he was a native New Yorker of Irish ancestry, he despised the Nazis, and he hoped to write a novel or two someday. He would make a fine traveling companion, she thought, smiling to herself as she settled back to enjoy the ride.
As they drove south through picturesque countryside and charming villages, Quentin asked Martha’s father how he was settling into his new job. After taking the precaution of declaring his remarks off the record, Martha’s father explained that he would not be officially recognized as the American ambassador to Germany until he could present his credentials to the president. However, Hindenburg had withdrawn to his estate at Neudeck in East Prussia to recuperate from an undefined illness and was not expected to return to the capital until the end of August. Until then, Martha’s father kept busy organizing his office, meeting his staff, briefing American news correspondents, and handling routine diplomatic issues. He had also lodged official protests with the German government regarding the violent attacks on Americans. “Foreign citizens are under no obligation to offer thisHitlergruss, this Hitler salute,” he said. “If the current administration can’t establish that as official policy, I may have no choice but to urge the State Department to issue a travel warning.”
Quentin’s eyebrows rose. “The German government would find that offensive, deeply humiliating.”
“Indeed, which is why I’m confident they’ll do whatever is necessary to avoid it.”
It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived in Wittenberg, where their first stop was the Schlosskirche. It was there that in 1517, Martin Luther had nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of the church’s main portal, sparking the Protestant Reformation.
“I sometimes attended services here when I was a student,” Martha’s father reminisced as they climbed the front steps, but when he tried to open the door so they could look around, he found it locked. Disappointed, they descended the stairs just as a Nazi parade emerged around the corner of an adjacent street. While Martha looked on eagerly, the others exchanged wary glances, and by unspoken agreement, they quickly departed in the opposite direction.
They spent an hour strolling around Wittenberg before climbing back aboard the Chevrolet and continuing south to Leipzig. They reached the city at one o’clock and went immediately to Auerbachs Keller, one of the most famous restaurants in Germany and a particular favorite of Goethe. “Do you recall the scene fromFaustthat took place in this very room?” Martha’s father asked as they sat around a long table awaiting their meal. “Faust and Mephistopheles met here, and the demon’s wine turned to fire.”
“I’m glad I chose beer, then,” remarked Quentin, raising his stein and beckoning for a refill. Laughing, Bill and Martha raised theirs too and cheered, while their parents, who had kept to water and tea, looked on indulgently.
After the meal, Martha, Bill, and Quentin suggested a walking tour to settle their heads before they resumed their journey. Martha’s father agreed, and he eagerly showed them around the city he had loved as a young scholar, pointing out his old favorite haunts as well as places of more historic significance.
By midafternoon, Bill was ready to take the wheel again, so the younger set parted company with Martha’s parents at their hotel and set out for Nuremberg. Quentin moved to the front seat, Martha had plenty of room to stretch out in the back, and they chatted about writing as they drove along, except when they paused to admire a particularly lovely scene outside the window. Bill drove swiftly through the countryside but slowed to a more sedate pace whenever the road passed through a village, not only to ease the jolting of the wheels over the cobblestones but to let them better admire the architecture and the occasional villager clad in colorful regional attire, lederhosen and dirndl. In nearly every town they encountered an SA parade, men of all ages and sizes clad in brown uniforms, marching, singing, chanting slogans, holding aloft red banners bearing the white circle and blackHakenkreuz. Whenever Bill slowed the car to a crawl to avoid the crowds and to better navigate the winding, narrow medieval streets, SA members, SS officers, and ordinary citizens would snap out theHitlergrussand shout “Heil Hitler!” at them.
“Heil Hitler!” Martha cried out the window, saluting them back.
“Would you stop doing that?” Bill asked irritably. “You’re an American. You don’t have to.”
“I might not have to, but when in Rome—” She offered another salute to several boys clad in short-pant versions of the men’s brown uniforms. “Why do the people keep saluting us, anyway? They aren’t shouting at other cars.”
“It’s the license plate,” said Quentin. “More important individuals are given lower numbers, and by custom the American ambassador is assigned number thirteen. They probably assume we’re some hotshot Nazi official’s family.”
“Great,” said Bill sarcastically.
Quentin grinned. “I’m not flattered by the mistake any more than you are.”
“Stop being such spoilsports,” said Martha, offering the salute and a smile to a pair of Brownshirts idling on a street corner. “I don’t know why you can’t appreciate the excitement and vigor of the new Germany. I find it marvelous. We could use some of this optimism back in the States.”
“I’ll take Roosevelt’s New Deal over Hitler’s Aryan Laws any day,” said Quentin.
“Hear, hear,” said Bill.
Martha let out a long, exaggerated sigh, so comical that Quentin guffawed and even Bill cracked a smile.
They encountered fewer marches as the afternoon wore on, and by the time twilight descended, the villages had turned peaceful and quaint again, looking as they might have one hundred years before except for the Nazi banners unfurled before government buildings.
“Most of Nuremberg will be tucked in bed fast asleep when we arrive,” Quentin warned when they reached the outskirts of the city. “Fingers crossed we can still find a decent pub where we can get a hot meal.”
“And a drink,” said Bill.
It was nearly midnight by the time they reached their hotel, but the town was still very much awake, the sidewalks full of lively, smiling people, the atmosphere festive.
“Are you sure you’ve been here before?” Martha teased Quentin as they unloaded their luggage. “Your description of the nightlife is a bit off the mark.”
He shrugged. “Must be a local holiday or something.”
