Mildred
Mildred was only a week into the fall term at the Berlin Abendgymnasium when Martha returned from her driving tour and attended the Harnacks’ literary salon. Mildred was pleased to see her new friend again, but as she led her around the flat making introductions, she detected tension around Martha’s eyes, a puzzling forced jollity in her voice. She knew Martha was eager to meet other writers, editors, and literati in Berlin, and her interest in their conversation seemed unfeigned, but something was clearly troubling her.
Later, when Martha took Mildred aside and told her about the shocking events she had witnessed in Nuremberg, Mildred understood. As promised, Quentin Reynolds had not named Martha or her brother in his article, but after German foreign press chief Ernst Hanfstaengl accused him of fabricating the entire tale, he had been obliged to identify his fellow eyewitnesses. Their names were not made public, but afterward even Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels could not deny the truth. And yet when confronted by international reporters at a press conference, he dismissed it as an isolated incident and made excuses for the Brownshirts’ brutality even as he promised that the men involved would be punished.
“Just yesterday, an official from the German Foreign Office privately apologized to me,” said Martha. “They regret that I was upset by what I saw. But where is the apology for Anna Rath? Where is her justice? When I asked Rudolf, he just gave me a cryptic smile and told me not to hold my breath.”
“Rudolf?”
“Rudolf Diels.” Martha’s mouth curved in a secretive smile. “We’ve become friends—intimate friends.”
“Martha—” Mildred grasped for the proper words. “Be careful with that one. The things I’ve heard—”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
Mildred was not so sure.
Later, Martha revealed that her father had finally presented his credentials to Hindenburg upon his return to Berlin, and also that he had declined Hitler’s invitation to attend the annual Nazi Party rally in Nuremberg. “Since it wasn’t an official state event, my father thought it would be inappropriate for him to attend,” Martha explained, “just as it would be wrong for the German ambassador to attend a Democratic or Republican national convention back home.”
“Well done, Ambassador Dodd,” said Mildred, pleased.
“He didn’t want Goebbels to portray his presence as an official endorsement of the Nazi regime. He secretly convinced the ambassadors of Great Britain, France, and Spain to decline their invitations too.”
“Not very secretly, if you heard of it.”
Mildred nudged her playfully, but her smile quickly faded. “My father has made several formal protests about all these attacks on Americans, but nothing’s improved. He says that the Germans are concerned about negative press back in the States. You’d think that would be enough to compel the government to keep the SA and SS in line.”
“Maybe they’re confident their censors will keep negative stories from getting out.”
“They didn’t stop Quentin.” Martha shook her head as if clearing it of distressing thoughts. “Speaking of journalism, I’ve been thinking you and I ought to write something together.”
What she had in mind was something for English speakers living in Germany—a column forBerlin Topics, the lone English-language newspaper in Berlin. They both loved to write, Martha had experience in journalism, and Mildred had connections throughout the Berlin literary community. But what form should their column take? Martha had to steer clear of politics and controversial subjects due to her father’s position, and neither of them wanted to cover the usual territory women were relegated to, housekeeping and beauty tips. Eventually they struck upon the perfect idea for two devoted bibliophiles: a book review.
The executive editor was thrilled to welcome a pair of writers with their credentials to the staff. Soon thereafter, when their first column, “Brief Reviews,” was published, Mildred enjoyed seeing her name in a byline again after such a long hiatus. She was also grateful for her share of their modest payment.
Although neither was accustomed to writing with a partner, they quickly figured out an efficient method. Together they chose two books for each column, and Mildred would write the review for one and Martha the other. They met weekly at Martha’s home to revise and edit their reviews, working in the library on cool, rainy days and in theWintergartenor on the terrace when the sun shone. They took turns typing up the final version from their marked-up pages and scrawled notes. After they submitted the finished column to their editor, they chose two books for the next column.
One lovely Sunday afternoon, Mildred and Martha were drinking coffee on the Dodds’ terrace and debating whether to review the English translation of Hans Fallada’s latest novel when a happy shriek from the garden below interrupted them. Mildred craned her neck and spotted two children darting about on the footpaths, a dark-haired boy of about seven and a little girl a few years younger. Rising, Martha called down to the children in cheerful but halting German that if they went to the kitchen, they would find some “sehr leckere Kekse” that the cook had baked earlier that afternoon. As the children thanked her and darted back into the house, Martha returned to her seat, satisfied. “That should keep them quiet for a while.”
Mildred regarded her, amused. “Care to explain why you’re offering cookies to two German children running around your garden?”
“Actually, it’s their garden. That was Hans and Ruth Panofsky.”
Mildred immediately recognized the surname of their resident landlord, the banker. “I thought only Herr Panofsky and his mother were still living here.”
“That was the original arrangement.” Martha sighed and set down her pen. “About two weeks ago, Mr. Panofsky brought in a team of carpenters to remodel the attic. When my father asked him what all the distracting hammering and sawing and banging was about, Mr. Panofsky told him that his wife, children, and a few servants were returning from the countryside. They needed to adapt their living quarters to make everyone more comfortable.”
“I didn’t think Mr. Panofsky’s wife and children meant to return to Berlin.”
“Neither did we. Mr. Panofsky assured my parents that we wouldn’t be inconvenienced, but my father was not appeased. He told Mr. Panofsky that while he was happy the family had reunited, he was concerned that the children would suffer, since they no longer had free run of their home. He also made it clear that if he had known Mr. Panofsky’s plans, he would have taken lodgings elsewhere.”
“Are you going to break the lease?”
“I don’t think so. This place is perfect for entertaining, and we can’t beat the price or the location. For now my father is willing to wait and see.” Martha shrugged. “My mother and I think Hans and Ruth are adorable, and the two Mrs. Panofskys are so discreet that you wouldn’t know they were here, but my father grumbles about the children’s noise, and he was much annoyed the other night when they burst in on a dinner he was hosting for some important diplomats.”
Mildred wistfully thought that it would be wonderful to have a pair of happy, healthy children—or even one precious only child—at home to interrupt her work.
“In my opinion,” Martha continued, “which sadly does not carry much weight around here, while my father is at the embassy, Hans and Ruth ought to go wherever they please. You can’t keep children shut up in an attic when there’s a perfectly wonderful garden outside. But my father—well, he thinks it was Mr. Panofsky’s plan all along to lure us here, and once we were comfortably settled—”
