“Lureyou here, with a luxurious home, low rent, ideal location—”
Martha laughed. “Exactly. What a cruel trap he set for us! And all because he knew that our presence would offer his family some protection against the Nazis.”
Now the astonishingly low rent made perfect sense, for what Mr. Panofsky needed most was not extra income, but security. Surely the SS and SA would not risk an international incident by storming into the American ambassador’s residence in order to seize Jews living in the attic. It was a clever plan, but Mr. Panofsky could still be arrested at his bank or on the streets if the Nazis wanted him badly enough.
“In Mr. Panofsky’s place,” Mildred ventured, “wouldn’t you do whatever was necessary to protect the ones you love?”
“In his place, I’d leave Germany,” said Martha, taking pen in hand again. “I wouldn’t stay here another day. I’d gather my children and get out.”
In early October, Martha invited Mildred and Arvid to a birthday party she was throwing for herself at Tiergartenstrasse 27a. Mildred readily accepted, but she almost regretted it in the days that followed when she learned that it would be a rather lavish affair, the guest list crowded with royals, nobles, the offspring of foreign diplomats, and young government officials. Mildred had only two dresses suitable for parties, neither of them formal enough for Martha’s gala, but when she confided to Arvid’s sister Inge that she was tempted to cancel, Inge immediately led her to her own closet, pulled out a lovely blue crepe de Chine dress, and insisted that Mildred take it.
On the night of October 8, Arvid put on his best dark suit and escorted Mildred, feeling lovely and carefree in her new gown, to the ambassador’s residence, where the party was already well under way. In the ballroom, guests chatted as jazz played on the Victrola and the butler and a maid circulated with trays of drinks. Martha was clearly enjoying herself as she mingled among her guests, sipping champagne, introducing an American to a German here, flirting with a debonair young officer there. Little Hans and Ruth were nowhere to be seen, and over the music, Mildred could not hear them either.
“I see friendly faces over there,” said Mildred as she glimpsed Quentin Reynolds chatting with Sigrid Schultz on the other side of the dance floor. “Let’s say hello.”
She and Arvid made their way to the pair, who were engrossed in conversation with another man, slight and dark, with keen, glowering eyes and a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. They spoke earnestly in low voices, and every so often one would glance casually over a shoulder as if keeping watch for eavesdroppers. At the sight of Mildred and Arvid approaching, the third man abruptly fell silent.
“Don’t worry about these two,” Sigrid told him. “They’re all right.” Quickly she introduced Mildred and Arvid to Norman Ebbutt, a correspondent with the LondonTimes. “We’re holding a wake for journalistic freedom in Germany.”
“I thought that died in March,” said Arvid. “Hitler murdered it with the Reichstag Fire Decree.”
Sigrid sighed and sipped her wine. “True enough, but theSchriftleitergesetzthat the rubber-stamp Reichstag passed four days ago put the final nail in its coffin.”
“This Editors Law forbids non-Aryans to work in journalism,” said Ebbutt, his British accent mitigating none of his disgust. “When it goes into effect on January first, no Jew, and no one married to a Jew, will be permitted to work as a journalist or editor. And editors will be required to cut any story, any statement, that might, and I quote, ‘weaken the strength of the Reich’ here in Germany or abroad.”
Sigrid shrugged. “If they don’t want us to write about the bad things they do, they shouldn’t do bad things.”
Mildred knew the details of the law well thanks to Sara Weitz, who had analyzed it thoroughly for their study group the day before it went up for a vote in the Reichstag. Sara’s brother was an editor at theBerliner Tageblatt, and she was deeply concerned about what the new restrictions would mean for him.
“It was only a matter of time,” said Quentin. “Hitler knows that nothing poses a greater danger to a fascist regime than the free press. He and Goebbels are determined to put us in a chokehold, silencing our voices, discrediting whatever stories we manage to get past their censors.”
“‘Our voices’?” echoed Mildred. “The law applies to foreign correspondents too?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Ebbutt. “I’m not terribly optimistic.”
Even if foreign correspondents were exempt, Mildred knew many editors and writers who would suffer under the law—Sara’s brother, former colleagues from the University of Berlin, as well as a significant proportion of their literary salon.
They commiserated a while longer, until Quentin and Ebbutt wandered off in search of another drink and Sigrid excused herself to hunt down a certain Nazi official whom she hoped would give her a quote for a story.
Just then, Mildred and Arvid spotted Martha coming their way on the arm of a tall man in his early forties with receding blond hair, shrewd blue eyes, and a mouth pursed in a contemplative frown. She introduced him as Hans Thomsen, an official who served as a liaison between the Chancellery and the Foreign Ministry. Thomsen’s eyebrows rose when he learned that Mildred was an American, an academic, and an expert in American literature. “I’m very interested in contemporary American authors,” he said, a faint Scandinavian accent coloring his English. “I’m especially curious to know which writers have the most influence with the American people.”
“You’ll have to ask her later,” said Martha, smiling as she linked her arm through Mildred’s. “I have to borrow Frau Harnack for a moment. In the meantime, Dr. Harnack is a brilliant economist, and if you ask nicely, I’m sure he’ll explain his plan for saving the German economy.”
Thomsen regarded Arvid with new interest. “Do you indeed have a plan, or is Miss Dodd giving me false hope?”
“I have a few ideas,” Arvid acknowledged.
“Then you could be just the man the Reich needs.”
“We’ll leave you to it.” As Martha led Mildred away, she added in an undertone, “Here’s hoping they become fast friends. With a word to the right person, Herr Thomsen could help Arvid get a job at the Economics Ministry.”
“I doubt they’ll hit it off,” murmured Mildred. “Thomsen’s a Nazi.”
“Yes, and very well placed. He and Hitler are quite close. It’ll be fine. Tommy’s not one of the fanatical ones. My father considers him relatively reasonable.”
“Tommy?” Mildred echoed, amused. “Another romantic conquest?”
“Not one of mine. He’s enamored with Elmina Rangabe, the Greek minister’s daughter.” Martha nodded toward the fireplace, where a beautiful dark-haired young woman in an emerald satin gown was holding court. “If you knew who I’m currently seeing, you’d never approve.”
