“I do know, and I don’t approve. The chief of the Gestapo is—”
“Not Rudolf.” Martha waved a hand dismissively, but there was a note of regret in her voice. “That’s history. You know what they say, the hottest flames burn the swiftest, until only embers remain.” She fanned herself with her hand. “We’re still friends, though.”
“That’s fortunate, since he would be a very dangerous enemy. Who’s your new fellow?”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting that out of me. If my father knew—” Martha shook her head, then brightened as an enormous black-haired man burst into the ballroom and was met by a chorus of welcomes. He was well over six feet tall and looked to be around 250 pounds, and when he greeted his friends, his voice boomed like a baritone roll of thunder above the din of the party. “Oh, you have to meet Putzi Hanfstaengl.”
A memory stirred as Mildred looked from her friend to the giant and back. “Is he your—”
“Putzi? Oh, God, no.” Martha laughed. “Just a friend. But he’s loads of fun. Don’t let appearances deceive you. He’s a Harvard man, and was quite the star of the Hasty Pudding Club as a student. He plays piano and sings too.” She rose up on tiptoe and waved to the newcomer, who spotted her, beamed, and began making his way through the crowd to them. “In his student days he became good friends with Theodore Roosevelt Jr., a classmate, and he visited the White House often. Once he played the piano in the White House basement with such vigor that he broke seven strings.”
Suddenly Mildred remembered why his surname sounded familiar. “Is Putzi Hanfstaengl related to Ernst Hanfstaengl, the Nazi who gave Quentin such a hard time about his article?”
“One and the same. Putzi’s a nickname. He’s not just Hitler’s foreign press chief. They’re longtime friends, very close.” Martha said the last in a hurried whisper as the man reached them. There were greetings and introductions, and although the big man was charming and spoke at a more civilized volume at close range, by the time he was called away to meet other friends, Mildred felt quite overwhelmed. She was relieved when Martha left to circulate among her guests and she could return to Arvid, who had not, as it happened, become best pals with Hans Thomsen, although Thomsen had found his economic theories intriguing.
Some time later, Mildred and Arvid were chatting with a young couple who were thinking about attending graduate school in the United States when the record on the Victrola began skipping.
“Put on Schubert’sUnfinished Symphony,” Putzi Hanfstaengl boomed.
“I know a tune you’ll like even better,” said Martha merrily as she crossed the room, graceful and swift, to change the record. After a moment of searching through the stack on a nearby shelf, she chose one, set it on the spindle, and lowered the needle. “This will get all you Germans singing.”
A moment later, the bright notes of brass filled the room, and after the first few measures Mildred recognized the “Horst Wessel Lied,” the Nazi Party anthem. How in the world had such a record ended up in the collection of the Dodd family? It couldn’t possibly belong to Alfred Panofsky.
As the lively march played on, Putzi Hanfstaengl and a few others raised their voices in song and the Nazi officers snapped out theHitlergruss. Suddenly Hans Thomsen strode across the room and switched off the record player.
“What’s the matter?” protested Martha, smiling uncertainly, bewildered. “Don’t you like it?”
“This is not the sort of music to be played in mixed gatherings and in a flippant manner,” he snapped. “I won’t have you play our anthem, with its significance, at a social party.”
“The rest of us were enjoying it,” said Hanfstaengl. His grin carried a hint of warning. “It’s Martha’s birthday, her party, and her house. She can play what she likes.”
Martha’s cheeks had flushed red with surprise, but as Hanfstaengl spoke, she frowned at Thomsen, a challenge in her eyes.
“I won’t allow it,” said Thomsen shortly. He removed the record from the Victrola, slipped it into its cardboard sleeve, and returned it to the shelf.
Hanfstaengl shrugged and murmured a joke to the people standing nearest to him. As they stifled nervous laughter, he sat down at the piano, flexed his fingers, and began playing Schubert’sUnfinished Symphony.
The festive mood of the party was spoiled, but as the evening passed, Mildred admired Martha for the cheerful, vivacious way she went about trying to restore it. Hans Thomsen left early with Elmina Rangabe on his arm, easing the tension considerably.
Later, as Mildred and Arvid were preparing to leave, they came upon Hanfstaengl offering Martha a few kind words of reassurance. “No harm was done,” he said in flawless English. “Find it in your heart to forgive him if you can.”
“Why should I?” Martha retorted. “I thought you would enjoy it. I certainly meant no insult. His reaction was totally out of proportion.”
“Perhaps, but some people have blind spots and no sense of humor regarding certain matters.” Hanfstaengl gently placed his enormous paws on Martha’s shoulders and bent to catch her eye. “One must be careful not to offend their sensitive souls.”
Softly Mildred cleared her throat to warn them they were not alone, and they quickly stepped apart. Arvid shook Hanfstaengl’s hand, Mildred kissed Martha on the cheek, and they both wished her a happy birthday.
“One must be careful not to offend the Nazis’ sensitive souls,” said Arvid acerbically when he and Mildred were alone on the sidewalk outside Tiergartenstrasse 27a. “They’re as precious and fragile as butterfly wings.”
“But of course,” said Mildred, taking his arm. “Nazis are known around the world for their delicate, sensitive, artistic souls.”
Arvid smiled wryly, and as they headed home, Mildred felt a small, guilty twinge of satisfaction. She was sorry that Martha had been embarrassed by a guest at her own birthday party, but if the insult helped shatter her illusions about the nobility and wisdom of the Nazis, Mildred could not regret it.
Chapter Twenty-one
October–December 1933
Martha
